Dangling Participles Part II Mistaken Identity
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: by FraidyCat and Serialgal. Don and Charlie found a new closeness in the aftermath of Macedo and his cartel. Will it be enough to withstand yet another phase of Charlie's never-ending nightmare?
1. Closure Only Applies to Windows

Considering the facts, Don was in a pretty decent mood

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 1: "Closure" Only Applies to Windows**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** _(a) a denial or disavowal of legal claim… (b) a writing that embodies a legal disclaimer…_ Definition courtesy Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam Company, Springfield, MA, U.S.A. Copyright 1979. COLLEGIATE is a registered trademark. **Furthermore,** NUMB3RS is a trademark of CBS Studios Inc. TM, © and ® by Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved. The _Mistaken Identity _series, a Rabid Raccoons production, is not recommended for young children. This disclaimer applicable to the _Mistaken Identity_ series in its entirety. The corporation known as "Rabid Raccoons" further disavows claim to any or all fan fictional works attributed to FraidyCat and/or Serialgal. At this point we also deny any connection to unsolved federal crimes. The compilation of this disclaimer took longer than the story you are about to read.

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Don's experience with a drunken Charlie was limited.

For one thing, his brother had never developed much of a drinking habit. An occasional beer over football, a glass of wine with dinner -- that was pretty much it, most of the time. There had been an incident or two during his college years, but Don was fairly certain that Charlie was not aware that he knew about them. Most kids who leave home for college endure a certain rite of passage at some juncture; but then, most are not ridiculously underage and living with their moms. Of course, Margaret had told Alan as soon as they got back to the West Coast for summer break after Charlie's junior year. Don remembered, because he was pretty pissed off already that summer. He was supposed to be getting his feet wet with the Rangers as a summer replacement. An unfortunate ankle twist during the last game of the college season had sidelined that plan, and instead he had to go home and lie on the couch and listen to nothing but endless discussions about Charlie.

_"I know he'll be a senior this fall, but he's still only 16! He can afford to lose a little time. I think we should pull him out. He's mixing with the wrong crowd there — he's come back to the apartment drunken twice __this year!"_

_Don had burrowed into the couch a little farther and tried to tune out the voices in the dining room when he learned that his father must be having a bad day of his own. "Well what the hell are you there for? Why are we paying to maintain two households on one income if you have no control over the boy?"_

_His mother had gasped, and choked out his father's name. "Alan! How can you say that to me? Are you forgetting that we agreed..."_

_With an uncharacteristic impatience, Alan had interrupted his wife. "We agreed not to send a 14-year-old out there alone. He's older now. Obviously he has friends. Maybe some of them are disturbingly normal -- Don was only 15 the first time he came home drunk -- but he has a support system at Princeton, now. What about that Professor Fleinhardt guy? He seems to have taken an interest, listing Charlie as co-author on his last paper and all." His father's voice was taking on an edge of sarcasm, and Don was growing uncomfortable. They must not realize he had limped down the stairs and settled on the couch. He thought about moving, but froze at Alan's next words. "Unless it's not Charlie who's really capturing his attention. Maybe there's another reason you want to be at Princeton so badly."_

Don shuddered violently, more from the memories than the night air, and tightened his grip on Charlie's arm. Yeah, it had been a volatile summer, but his parents had worked it out. They always presented a united front for him and Charlie, and if he hadn't been hidden on the couch that morning he never would have known. He always wished he didn't, every time he found himself thinking about the summer he was 21. It wasn't difficult to see, now, with the distance of time – and the guidance of Bradford, shrink extraordinaire. He had added that episode to the ball of resentment against Charlie that he carried in his gut for years. Now, he dragged the Singing Tenor up the sidewalk towards the Craftsman and reminded himself that it had all worked out. Charlie had gone back to Princeton for his senior year alone. Mom had started working again, and as far as he could tell on his weekend visits home the next year, things were back to normal between his parents. After he had transplanted himself to L.A., Larry had become one of Alan's best friends, and a part of the family himself.

Charlie stumbled, his unrecognizable aria ending in a yelp, and Don remembered what had started him down this path in the first place. Besides those college experiences, Charlie had been drunk twice that Don knew about. Apparently there had been something so bad that alcohol poisoning was involved. Charlie had told him about that one himself, just a couple of years ago -- when that Susan woman had showed up. Their time together in London was educational in many ways. When Charlie had fallen right back into step -- and into bed -- with her, it had scared him enough to come clean with Don and ask for advice. The other time Don had witnessed himself, after a misunderstanding with Amita during the start of Charlie's relationship with her. He couldn't recall all the details, but remembered that it had been fairly innocuous and trivial – yet had still driven Charlie to literally cry in his beer. In actuality, Don had been waiting for this episode for the last six months. Losing the love of his life had been anything but trivial for his brother.

He pulled Charlie into the small alcove near the front door and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He may have had one too many himself before they moved the party. Charlie had gone strangely silent at his side. "Good thing Dad took off for the weekend," started Don, finding his keys at last. "He'd give me all kinds of hell for this. Aren't you still on some medication? Shit."

The keys jumped from nerveless fingers, bent on committing suicide on the concrete sidewalk. Charlie hiccupped once; then giggled, reaching out to twist the door knob. "I DINT LOK IT!" he screamed.

If Don hadn't been bending over to search for the keys, the shout might have deafened him. As if was it scared the crap out of him and he jerked, hitting his head on the solid oak door jamb. "Dammit Charlie," he whined, rubbing the top of his head. After two aborted attempts he managed to locate the keys. He snatched them up and straightened, following his brother through the door. "Keep your voice down! And how many times do I have to tell you to lock the friggin' doors!" His tirade stopped when he heard a sniff from the vicinity of the couch. Great. Charlie had moved to another stage of insobriety. His mood was going to change without notice.

"I'm sorry," his brother answered, his voice thick with tears. "Oh, Donnie. I'm worthless."

Don rolled his eyes, which made him stagger for some reason, and wondered how Charlie had gotten a bottle in his hand already. Somehow he crossed the few feet to the couch and fell next to Charlie, putting his hand out to paw at the Jose. "Don't tell me you're a crying drunk," he began. "Again." He regarded the bottle with interest. "I didn't know you kept tequila in the housh. You should probly gimme that."

Charlie sniffed again and turned to glare at him before he took a long swig straight from the bottle and then thrust it toward Don. When he spoke next, his voice was hard and full of resentment. Stage Three. "That old man is driving me crazy. I mean, look at thish! You had to promise to baby-sit me before he took that consult in Shan Diego!"

This time Don giggled, then took a draw of the fiery amber liquid himself. "Shan Diego," he chortled, when he at length lowered the bottle. "You're shit-fashed." He cleared his throat. "Faced. Give him a break, he just worries. Been a hard year."

Charlie reached for the bottle, but Don wouldn't let go. He pulled at it determinedly. "For you, too! You were woo...woo...woo...shot..., and then you boke up wid Liz, 'n he doeshn't follow you around!" Charlie's speech patterns were rapidly deteriorating.

Don finally realized Charlie was after the Jose, and abruptly let go. Since Charlie was pulling at the time, the bottle shot back and hit him hard in the chest. He stared at it as if it were a live thing threatening to take him down. Don had to laugh at the look on his face. "Maybe we've had enough. Dad doesn't follow you around, either. And itsh not the shame thing. Liz and I agreed to stop seeing each other. Not like she was..." He barely stopped himself, the realization that he was about to say "killed" hitting him like a brick between the eyes, a harsh and sobering experience.

Charlie glanced up from the bottle he still clutched to his chest, and his eyes flashed dark with pain. "DON'T SAY THAT!" he shouted, struggling to get off the couch. "DON'T YOU THINK I..." His voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, and he stopped struggling. He sighed, and absently wrapped his free hand around the bottle as well. He settled back into the corner of the couch and leaned his head back. He seemed suddenly a great deal more sober himself when he spoke again. "You shouldn't throw away whash imperfect, Don. When I think of all the yearsh Amita and I wasted…all the time we spent running scared, afraid to choose eash other over everything else…." He blinked rapidly and his arms slacked, the fifth of Jose heading for a nasty nosedive.

With more effort than it should have required, Don managed to lean forward and grab the bottle. He dangled it from his fingers for a moment. "That was short of the point, Charlie. For Lish…Liz… and me, I mean. We never had what you guys had. You were friends, and loved each other for years, and eventually it became something else. All we ever had was sex, and the job." He laughed suddenly, and moved his gaze from the bottle to his brother. "Once, sex _on_ the job. Ask me about that when one of us is sober." He saw Charlie's lips part in a smile, but the younger man remained silent, so Don continued, speaking slowly and trying to force his thick tongue to articulate. "We want what you guys had – get it? For ourselves, and for each other, because we both deserve that. We just decided we would never find our – soulmates, I guesh – as long as we were using each other to hide behind."

Charlie rolled his head on the arm of the couch so that he could lock eyes with his brother. "I'm almost drunk enough to believe that. Yet what confuses me is how you expect this shoulmate to do all the work. To just show up at your door someday. Sheems to me you might actually have to date. Or something."

Don gripped the edge of the couch, and tried to push himself off with one hand and still hang onto the bottle with the other. It required enormous coordination – more than baseball ever had. "Shuddup," he grumbled. "I don't see you spending a lot of time on the market yourself." He stopped, chagrined. He really had to learn to keep his mouth shut when he was drunk.

Charlie drew in his arms and legs and tucked his head, a turtle withdrawing into its shell. "I'm shleeping down here," he mumbled into the back of the couch. "Leave me 'lone. Don't wanna talk anymore."

Don sighed, realizing an apology would only make things worse right now. He pushed against the edge of the couch again and this time managed to sway to his feet. He sighed again and staggered toward the kitchen, to empty Jose down the drain.

End, Chapter 1

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

A/N: Readers exercising the proper amount of stunned and voracious consumption of this chapter will have noted that at no point is it stated that either Don or Charlie drove home in their condition. We first find the boys on the sidewalk in front of the Craftsman. Raccoons do not condone or perpetuate the practice of drunk driving.


	2. Follow the Money

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 2: Follow the Money**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

The morning-after began in a predictable-enough fashion. Sour mouths full of cotton. Impossibly kinked muscles, protesting at their nights on the couch (for Charlie) and chair (which is where Don ended up, although he had no clear memory of how.) Jackhammers at full RPM in their heads, a certain fragile queasiness in their stomachs, and the uncomfortable pressure in the vicinity of the chest that indicated that too much – or perhaps not enough – had been said.

They managed to peel themselves off the upholstery in the dawn's early light and take turns at the shower without exchanging more than four words. "Mornin'," was the entire conversation for over half-an-hour. By the time Don finished his shower and made his way carefully into the kitchen, where Charlie had started a pot of coffee, he had worked his way up to, "Got any aspirin?"

If he'd been just a little more alert, he would have recognized the tiny bottle his brother clutched in a death grip. He decided not to worry about that when Charlie offered to share. God bless his mother for teaching Charlie to share.

A shadow of longing crossed the mathematician's face as he handed over the bottle. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak emerged. Coughing into a raised arm, he looked back at the coffee pot before he tried again. This time his voice came out in a whisper. "You're not on call today, are you?"

He winced – the whisper was still too loud – and Don dry-swallowed the aspirin and tried not to be jealous because his brother had managed a complete sentence. "No," he exhaled in a relieved breath. "The team actually scored a real weekend." He joined Charlie in his concentration on the coffee maker. "Can't say I planned to spend it like this."

The pot was nearly full now, and Charlie reached slowly, carefully, to open the overhead cupboard and withdraw two mugs. Handing one to Don, who noticed with a detached awe that his hands were shaking, Charlie frowned and looked him in the eye. "We may not want to do this," he whispered again. "Caffeine is actually an irritant to the stomach. In Ancient Rome, the cure of choice was a couple of deep-fried canaries."

Don snorted out a laugh before he could stop himself, then squeezed shut his eyes at the blinding pain that shot through his head. "Damn, Charlie. I think I toasted the last canary for dinner. Think we can substitute pickled koi?"

He opened his eyes in time to see Charlie sway a little and grab onto the counter. "Don't think the koi are the ones who are pickled, here," he answered seriously, and Don laughed again.

"Would you stop that?" he demanded. "It's way too early and I am in entirely too much pain for this."

Charlie grinned and filled his mug with coffee, spilling only about half the pot onto the counter. Don noted with satisfaction that his brother's hands were shaking also. "I mean it about the whole caffeine thing," the younger man said, taking a huge, slurping draw off the mug anyway. He grimaced as the hot liquid burned his mouth, and took a lurching step toward the refrigerator. "I think there's some sports drink in here. Electrolytes."

Don took his turn at what was left of the coffee and then turned to join his brother, who was seated at the table now. Don regarded Charlie solemnly, feeling his gut lurch uncomfortably. He wasn't sure if the coffee was already affecting his stomach, or if it was the sight of Charlie alternating between the steaming mug and a plastic jug of a horrendously neon-green liquid. Something just wasn't sitting right, though. He tried to think. "Not really hungry," he finally mused. "But we should probably eat something. Dry toast?"

Charlie turned exhausted eyes on him, and Don could only focus on the green stream dripping off his little brother's chin. It was sickening and oddly fascinating at the same time. "Too much work," Charlie decided. "Soda crackers are easier. Then I think we're supposed to take a nap."

Don tried to arch an eyebrow, but was slightly disconcerted to find that he could not. "Been awake less than an hour," he pointed out.

"I know," yawned Charlie. "That's a long time."

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

The second time they awoke things were a little clearer – including the jackhammers in Charlie's head. He groaned and rolled over on the couch, nearly falling over the edge. Strange – he thought they had aimed for their actual beds this time, but there was Don in their Dad's recliner, blinking at him blearily. "What are you doing?" moaned Charlie. "Can't you do it a little more quietly?"

Don gripped the arms of the chair as if they were the rails on a listing ship. "It's not me," he protested, slowly lowering his feet to the floor. "I think someone's at the door."

As if to prove his hypothesis, an incessant ringing began to join the pounding, and Charlie covered his ears. "Oh, God," he cried pitifully. "Make it stop!"

Besides a rather significant headache of his own, Don didn't really feel that badly this time around, he discovered as he found his feet. He chuckled a little as he passed his brother and made his way to the front door. This was one of the few advantages to outweighing the little runt. Still, he intended to get rid of whoever this was fast, and find that bottle of aspirin again.

The door seemed farther away than usual, and he was pretty tired by the time he got there. Doing exactly what he was always telling Charlie not to do, he jerked the door open without checking through the peephole first. Leaning against the door jamb that had assaulted him the night before, Don regarded the suits on the doorstep and tried to make sense of them.

The two men exchanged a brief, amused look and then the taller of the two spoke. "Special Agent Eppes, I believe. Agents Douglas and Rutherford, NSA. We're actually here to speak with Dr. Eppes. Is he home?"

Immediately the alcoholic fuzz drained from Don, replaced by an overwhelming sense of Big Brother. He straightened his spine and shifted to block entrance to the home. What the hell was the National Security Agency doing at Charlie's front door on a Saturday morning? Afternoon. Evening? Whatever. Time didn't matter – he just knew he wasn't going to let the NSA pull his brother into anything, right now. Ever again, in fact. "He's not well," he replied stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Please arrange to come back another time."

The men exchanged another look, and this time the shorter man spoke. "We're sorry to hear that, Agent. Unfortunately, it really is imperative that we speak to him."

"Listen…" Don began, stopping when he heard Charlie's voice directly behind him.

"Let them in," he huffed, resigned. "I'll say 'No' to whatever it is and they'll leave."

Don swiveled his aching head to look at Charlie and Agent Douglas took the opportunity to push his way through the door. "Dr. Eppes. Director Tompkins sends his regards. I believe you'll find a voice mail from him on your cell – he has been trying to reach you for several hours."

Don staggered back half a step as Douglas brushed past him, emitting a strangled, outraged cry, and Charlie laid a steadying and comforting hand on his arm. "It's okay, Donnie," he said. "Let's just get this over with."

There was coffee left from their aborted attempt at breakfast, but neither brother offered the NSA agents any. Instead, Don stood at the edge of the room and glared at them and Charlie held up his hand for silence while he found his cell and listened to his voice mail. The message from Tompkins was confusingly brief, and cryptic, and he shot an uneasy glance toward his brother. "He just says to cooperate." He looked to Douglas, who seemed to be the senior agent. "What is this about? Does he want me to consult on something? Because I'm not doing that, yet. I'm still on medical leave."

Douglas put his hands on his hips, which caused his suit jacket to fall open, revealing the gun on his hip. Don recognized the interrogation power move, and a sudden chill ran through him. "Charlie," he suddenly ordered. "Don't say anything else. Does he need an attorney?"

Charlie looked at him, startled. "What?"

Douglas smiled, although it didn't make him look any friendlier. More like a rabid dog about to attack. "That's entirely up to Dr. Eppes, although at this juncture I believe it is unnecessary. We're only here to ask a few questions."

Don crossed the room to his brother, never taking his eyes off Douglas. He grabbed at Charlie's arm. "Come and sit down," he started, repeating his earlier command. "And don't say anything." He led a dazed Charlie to the couch and gently helped him down, then stood over him with his own hands on his own hips. "I'm a federal agent," he reminded the two NSA operatives. "I make a helluva witness. Say your piece and get out. You've got five minutes."

Rutherford swallowed, but Douglas just smiled again and didn't give Don an inch. "As you wish." He stared at him coldly for a long moment, and then switched his gaze to Charlie. "Dr. Eppes. Experts working for the NSA – many of them recommended by you – have finished their inquiries into the financial status of the Macedo Cartel." He tilted his head and let a note of sarcasm drip into his voice. "We understand that certain…donations…were made to various South American charities. Although I disagree with his decision, Director Tompkins chooses to look the other way on that. _I_ would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law, myself."

"Skip the editorializing," Don growled. "You're on the clock. Four minutes."

This time Douglas didn't bother to hide his glare. "Several million dollars is still unaccounted for," he spat, looking back at Charlie. "In your official statement you indicated that you successfully redirected all Cartel funds."

"I did," Charlie squeaked, but stopped when his brother dropped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed.

Don's eyes narrowed. "Just what are you insinuating? An entire year elapsed from the time Charlie did his money-laundering work until he was held at Macedo's compound. Macedo or his people could have done anything in that time."

Rutherford suddenly found his courage and spoke quickly, hoping to impress his senior agent. "Perhaps. Yet it is Dr. Eppes who suddenly has an influx of money. There's the Eppes Foundation's Amita Ramanujan Memorial Scholarship, for instance."

Charlie blanched and struggled up from the couch, shaking off Don's restraining hand. "That scholarship was started with my own money!" he protested angrily. "I'm sure you've already checked my accounts."

"We have," responded Douglas. "You made a very generous contribution – which is nowhere near the final endowment."

Don stepped in front of Charlie, to separate him from the NSA agents. "Don't insult us," he fumed. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't know exactly where every dime of that money came from. Colleagues, friends, students…even the NSA contributed. I believe Bob Tompkins himself signed the damn check. Dr. Ramanujan's parents matched Dr. Eppes' funds."

Douglas shouted right back. "That doesn't explain how a man who hasn't worked in almost eight months – for anyone – continues to make huge deposits in his personal accounts!"

Charlie's eyes shot daggers over Don's shoulder. "I'm still on the CalSci payroll and you know it. I have book royalties. I'm earning a healthy amount of interest on previous investments. Don's right, none of this can come as news to you!"

Douglas bared his teeth again. "Perhaps not, Dr. Eppes. At the moment, we lack sufficient evidence for an arrest. I assure you, we are still looking. What you need to see more clearly is how much damage we can do to your reputation, even if we never find that evidence. People will never remember if you are eventually exonerated – they will remember only that you were accused."

Don clenched his fists at his sides and started for the other agents. "Your time is up," he barked. "You will vacate this house or I will have you both arrested for trespassing."

Rutherford shrunk back a step, but Douglas held his ground. "Dr. Eppes will help the NSA find this missing money," he countered, "or we will destroy this entire family."

End, Chapter 2


	3. Ghosts of Torture Past

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 3: Ghosts of Torture Past**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

He handed over the last payment, thinking again how wise he had been to conceal the cash in the tiny mountain village a short distance from the compound. He grimaced, remembering the tortured journey. Injured, drugged, avoiding any notice, it had been excruciating. His silence was misconstrued by the physician.

"Is there a problem?" the doctor asked, a trifle nervously. "Are you in any pain?"

"No," he answered briefly. He looked again into the heavy silver handheld mirror. "You do excellent work."

The surgeon beamed. "Thank you. You indeed have a new identity, now. A new set of fingerprints. A new face. There is no one alive who will know you are Hector Macedo."

The patient smiled coldly, and hefted the mirror. It shattered as it cracked the doctor's skull. He dropped the remnants onto the limp form at his feet, bending to choose a particularly large shard of glass. "No," he murmured as he leaned to draw the glass through the man's throat, opening a second smile that extended from one ear to the other. "There is no one alive who knows who I am."

He stood for a moment, still recollecting the last weeks, oblivious to the gurgles of death at his feet. His jump from the plane, at Rafe's insistence. The tortured crawl through the grassy field near the runway toward the jungle at the far side, where he rested, gasping, then the painful journey to his stash of money, and his little bungalow in the village. The realization, when he reached the computer in the small house; that his funds were being depleted, and were systematically being disbursed among charities and orphanages.

He had managed to get in contact with the bank and get just a fraction of the funds diverted into his personal account before they were gone altogether; and then immediately transferred them to another new account at yet another bank under a new name. Because of that he still had a sizable amount of money, millions in fact, but it was nothing compared to his previous wealth; and worse yet, he had been stripped of his power. It would be a long slow climb to the top again, with no guarantees, but he was committed to regaining his status in the world. And the first step would be to ensure that the man who had brought about this turn of events would pay with his life. It was a necessary step, to let the world know that his power was not diminished; that he was to be respected. Of course, the authorities would not be able to prove that he did it, but everyone would know, just the same. No one crossed Hector Macedo and lived.

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

It was Sunday evening, and Charlie ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "I don't know," he said, exasperated.

"Charlie, how can you not know where the money came from?" asked Don. "You're a math genius, for God's sake."

Charlie jabbed a finger at the piles of bank statements in front of him. "The bank details who a payment was made to when it's check or a credit card charge. But money coming in is only listed as 'deposit.' I know what some of it is, but not all of it. I'll need to get detailed information from the bank when it opens tomorrow."

Don frowned. "I still don't get how you don't know where your deposits are coming from."

Charlie sighed. "I suppose I should keep better track of it, but I usually just hire a tax guy at the end of the year to plow through it all. It's too time-consuming. Most of this is payment for consulting work, which is sometimes done in installments instead of a lump sum. Some of it is royalties for books and articles that I've written. Some of it was donation checks for the scholarship fund, which I passed on to that account. I just don't know exactly where it came from without getting that information from the bank."

Don raised an eyebrow as he scanned the amounts. "It seems like a lot. Doesn't this look like more than you should make in a year?"

Charlie rapidly scanned through the figures. "No." At Don's expression, he colored a bit. "How do you think I paid cash for this house? Or started the scholarship fund?"

Don stared at him. "You don't even have to teach to make a living, do you?"

"No. I do it because I want to, because you can't stay on top of all the latest developments, much less be in the forefront of the field, if you don't keep your hand in the academic world."

Don's voice was wry. "I never realized mathematics was such a happenin' field."

Charlie's grinned. "You'd be surprised." He cocked his head and looked at his brother teasingly. "Or maybe not." His head lifted as the front door opened and his expression sobered. Douglas and Rutherford had made it a point to camp out in front of his home in their car all weekend, and Douglas had shown no compunction at walking in unannounced for an update. This time it wasn't Douglas, but the figure was almost as disconcerting.

Alan took in his two sons' hang-dog expressions, and the pile of paperwork. "Charlie," he demanded, "what's going on?" His gaze traveled to Don. "Who are those men in the car out there?"

Don and Charlie exchanged glances, and it reminded Alan oddly of the time, years ago, when they had come to him to confess to breaking the windshield of his car with a badly placed baseball. "Should you tell him," murmured Don, "or should I?"

A few moments and an explanation later, Alan shifted his position on the sofa, uncomfortably. "So what happens if you can't account for all of the money?" he asked. Charlie hesitated.

A voice came from the doorway, and they turned to see Douglas standing in it. "That's easy," he said, with a snake-like smile. "He goes to jail."

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Dr. Ana de la Cruz sighed as she lifted another stack of files from the cabinet. Dr. Fuentes may have been a noted plastic surgeon, but he was stingy with his office help and the state of his files showed it. Old patient files were mixed in with new, and in some cases not filed properly. When Ana agreed to take over the dead doctor's patients, she hadn't bargained for the state of his office affairs.

She set the files down on the desk and sat, opening each, looking for the date that the patient was last seen. If it was over a year, she read no further, putting the file in a pile destined for the archive records. If the patient had been seen more recently, she scanned through the file, looking at the 'before' photos, and if surgery had been performed, the 'after' ones, reading the details of the procedures, and any accompanying notes for follow-up care. She nodded in appreciation as she looked at some of the photos. Dr. Fuentes really had been remarkably skilled – reportedly one of the best in Rio de Janeiro, which, in the plastic surgery capital of the world, was saying something.

She loved Rio, herself. It was a huge city, teeming with people. It was easy to lose oneself here, as the fleeing Nazi's from Germany had found years ago. It was a good place to start again, to begin a new life, to forget the past.

That past had reared its ugly head again with death of her mother. Ana had implored her to leave, to come to Rio with her, but her mother had refused to leave Colombia. Her violent death had really come as no surprise considering where she worked and lived, and it dredged up old hatreds, old hurts that Ana had successfully stifled, until then. She could feel them now, the toxic fear and anger coursing through her veins.

She pushed the feelings aside and reached for the next file, marked 'Campano, Jose.' There was the requisite paperwork that indicated surgery had been performed – rather extensive facial surgery, but no photos. She frowned, and shook the folder upside down. Nothing. Normally the photos were in a packet together, although sometimes she found additional photos stapled in amongst the files. She looked for them now, leafing through the surgery notes, page by page. This patient had been here recently – his follow-up visit had actually been the day of Dr. Fuentes' murder. Such a tragedy – the murder of a notable doctor, and for what? Sixty-four Reals and some change, which was all the money that the office carried that day.

The surgery notes contained nothing in the way of pictures, and she sighed, idly leafing though the paperwork from the patient's first consultation. She wasn't really expecting to find anything there, so when she caught a glimpse of a small photo stapled between the pages, she almost flipped past it. It caught her eye at the last minute, and she pried the staple out, freeing the small picture. It fluttered to the desk, face up, and she caught her breath. It couldn't be. "Madre Dios," she whispered softly.

She lifted it with shaking hands as if it was a spider and peered at it closely, as the horror, the shame came rushing back. It was him; there was no mistake. She would never forget that face, no matter how long she lived, no matter how hard she tried.

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Hector Macedo watched from the CalSci parking lot, as the slight figure trudged toward his car. He had arrived in Pasadena that morning as Jorge Caleña, a businessman from Sao Paolo. He had found the Eppes residence easily from the phone book, but to his consternation, the place was being watched, and Dr. Eppes was being trailed by men in a dark sedan everywhere he went. He thoughtfully considered the implications of that. Was Eppes so important that he merited constant surveillance? If not, what was the reason – and how extensive was it? If there were just two of them, he could still contrive a workable plan, he was sure of it.

Emboldened by his new appearance, he stepped out of his car and approached the campus, on a path that would take him right past Eppes. One of the men watching Eppes also stepped from his vehicle and approached the professor, and for a split second, Macedo hesitated, then decided it would look odd if he changed course, so he kept coming. He made it to the sidewalk and pushed past them head down, just as the man spoke.

"When you're done at the bank, we need you to come downtown. We've got an office set up for you, with computer equipment. We need you to start working on tracking where the money may have come from, or where it may have gone."

He broke off suddenly as he caught sight of the stranger approaching, and Macedo heard no more as he passed out of range. They were government men, then, or police, and Eppes was apparently on assignment. He strolled around the nearest building, and when he came around again he could see the professor's blue Prius pulling out of the lot, followed by the two men in the dark sedan. Macedo watched them go, and then turned and headed toward the campus buildings. It was a good opportunity to get a look at Eppes' office, and to reconnoiter the campus.

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Many hours later, Charlie stretched and sighed, sitting back from the computer monitor. He'd found how the money had gotten into the mystery account easily enough; it had been funneled directly from Macedo's funds, by someone apparently familiar with his financial set-ups and passwords. There was, unfortunately, no clue as to whom it might have been, and he set to work trying to figure out where subsequent withdrawals might have gone. The offshore bank was highly discreet, and claimed it did not keep records of transaction locations, only amounts. It was by international law impervious to NSA pressure, and so all Charlie had to work with was the two large amounts that had been withdrawn, both on the same date. It was up to him to find where in a myriad of institutions in the world they might have gone.

That was impossible to do without computer programming and a set of search algorithms, which he had spent the evening writing. He had just input the data from the bank and had gotten them running. He glanced at his cell phone to get the time. Close to midnight, and he had a class the next day; and tests to grade yet. It was an unwelcome reality; how much it took out of him still, even though he was only teaching one small class this first summer session – "to get his feet wet", Millie had coerced. And now his life was complicated once more by the National Security Agency. He felt a surge of frustration at the thought. One would think, after everything he'd done for the NSA, that they'd be a little more trusting. He knew after a conversation with Bob Tompkins that Bob didn't really believe he would have taken the money, but in Washington, even the hint of possible impropriety had torpedoed careers, and so Tompkins, and by extension, Charlie, was forced to produce proof that he hadn't taken the money.

Thankfully, Alan had volunteered to start going through Charlie's own bank records and recording all of his deposits, so Charlie could start working on the programming. So Charlie had dropped the bank statements off at home, and had gone on to the NSA office and focused on writing the program. It was now running, but there was no clear indicator as to how long it would have to run. It could be hours, it could be days, before the algorithms sorted out all of the possible permutations. There was nothing more that could be done for now, and Charlie decided it was time to call it a night.

He stepped out of the room quietly into the outer suite, shutting off the light, leaving the computer behind him to glow dimly in the darkness. A voice drifted toward him from his left, and he turned to see Douglas lounging in an armchair. "So?"

"I started the program," Charlie said stiffly. "It will need to run for a few hours minimum, maybe a couple of days. Whatever you do, don't shut off the computer."

Douglas shot him a suspicious look. "Why does it take so long?"

"For one thing, there are only two data points – there were only two withdrawals, both on the same date. The good thing is we have the exact amounts, and they are large, so that will narrow it down a bit. Still, I expect to get more than one hit. The algorithm is searching banks and financial institutions all over the world, looking for two deposits to match the two withdrawals. It's fairly simple, really, in theory…"

Douglas's eyes were starting glaze over as Charlie launched into the basic construction of the algorithm. Just as he was about to tell the professor that he had the basic idea, Charlie was stopped in mid-sentence, and he frowned. "Wait, do you hear that?"

Douglas strained to hear. "Hear what?"

"That's it, precisely," said Charlie. "Nothing." With an odd look, he turned and stepped back through the door.

Douglas pulled himself from the armchair, and strolled in after him, peering over Charlie's shoulder at the computer screen. The slight whirring noise that the computer made while it was running had stopped.

"It found a match already," said Charlie. "I've started it running again, to see if there are any others, but I'm sure this is the one we want. It's a bank in the West Indies. I pulled money from this account too, when I was disbursing the funds to the orphanages. It's very odd, though."

Douglas frowned. "If it was one of Macedo's accounts, what's odd about it?"

Charlie shook his head. "It's a private account. I wiped it clean, and on that date, it showed deposits in the exact amounts of the two withdrawals. What's odd is that I didn't know anyone knew about it, other than the owner."

Douglas stared at him. "You mean -,"

Charlie nodded, a tendril of apprehension curling around his heart. "Yes. I mean Hector Macedo."

End Chapter 3


	4. Premonitions

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 4: Premonitions**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don blinked and yawned. He lay there for a moment, relaxed, until he remembered the reason why he had slept over at Charlie's, and the return of that odd feeling, the little nagging doubt in the back of his mind, drove him completely awake. He glanced at the bedside clock – the alarm was due to go off in five minutes anyway. He grabbed the cell phone lying there and checked it – no messages, not that he expected any this early. It was early in Colombia, too.

The night before he'd gone over to Charlie's after work, only to find that his brother had already come and gone. Charlie had dropped off the bank statements and, along with the two NSA agents, headed for the office they'd set up. Don stayed anyway, and helped Alan plow through Charlie's bank statements. He wasn't about to go home until Charlie got back. It wasn't that he didn't trust the NSA agents, but, well, he didn't trust the NSA agents. Douglas in particular got on his nerves. He knew the man didn't like Charlie, and was itching to find a reason to put him in custody. And if Don knew one thing, it was that Charlie would never spend a minute in a prison again, not if he could help it.

It was close to midnight before they had all the deposits accounted for. Don felt a surge of relief – they could hardly finger Charlie for this now – his accounts were clean. It was nearly 1:00 a.m., when Charlie appeared, along with the inevitable Douglas and Rutherford.

Charlie had an odd look on his face, but when he explained what his program had found Douglas had dismissed the finding. "The man's dead," he had said. "We confirmed it with the Colombian militia." He'd sent a derisive look in Don's direction. "I thought you were there when it went down."

Douglas was sure they would find out that one of Macedo's accountants or staff was behind this, and Charlie seemed to agree, but Don, for some reason, couldn't shake the odd premonition it generated. He'd pulled Douglas aside and insisted that Charlie be assigned a protective detail until they knew for sure what was going on. To his annoyance, not only did Douglas laugh off his request, he made it clear that he and Rutherford were getting some sleep that night. The news that Charlie's accounts were clear apparently had convinced the NSA agent that Charlie wasn't a criminal or a flight risk, and no longer needed to be watched so closely.

As a result, Don had stayed himself, telling Alan and Charlie only that it was too late to go back to his apartment. There was no sense in worrying them over an unfounded fear. Before he went to bed, he made a call on his cell phone to the Colombian police. They weren't in; it was the middle of their night too, but he wanted his message waiting for them first thing when they got to the office.

He rose and stumped down to the kitchen to get coffee, and trudged past Alan who sat at the kitchen table with the morning paper. "Mornin'."

"Mornin' yourself," said Alan, without taking his eyes off the page.

Don glanced at him as he poured coffee. Now that Charlie's finances were in order and his name had been cleared, Alan appeared much more relaxed. Don wished he could say the same. Even in the light of day, something about all of this was just not sitting right. "Where's Charlie?"

"Went in to school already. Said he needed to enter test scores into the computer," Alan replied, without taking his eyes off the paper.

Don grunted in response, and trudged back upstairs to get a shower, coffee cup in hand. Alan had the right idea; it was silly to worry. Don had seen the plane go down in a ball of flames himself. There was no way anyone could have survived that.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Captain Raul Posada cast a jaundiced eye on the woman waiting impatiently outside his office. Granted, she looked pretty, no – Madre Dios, she was beautiful, he amended as she turned around, but he hadn't even had a chance to open up, to get his coffee first. And she looked anxious. Calming an anxious woman wasn't high on his list of things to do first thing in the morning.

"One moment," he murmured, as he unlocked the door, holding it for her. The message light was blinking on his phone. He turned and caught the eye of the first-year detective behind him. "Coffee," Raul growled, "for me and the señorita." He watched in satisfaction as the young man scurried for the coffee pot. Served him right for letting her in before hours.

She waited, tensely, accepting the coffee with a slight nod of thanks as Raul sat and took a healthy swig of his. "One moment," he said again. "I should make sure that this is not an emergency."

He lifted the receiver and hit the message button, and she fiddled with the envelope in her hands as the voice came on in his ear. An American FBI agent – he remembered the man – he'd assisted in the raid on Hector Macedo's compound, his brother had been the consultant. He frowned in confusion. The man wanted to know if they had done DNA testing on the bodies of Hector Macedo and his man Rafe Munoz. An odd request, after so long. He felt a twinge of irritation – he had enough to do with his current caseload; he didn't need pointless inquiries into old ones. He made a note on his pad, jotting down the agent's number, and hung up the phone. "What can I do for you?" he asked, a bit gruffly, but politely.

"My name is Dr. Ana de la Cruz," she said in a voice as beautiful as her face. "I have some information that you may be interested in. I work as a surgeon in Rio de Janeiro."

Posada interrupted her. "Then you should take this to the Brazilian authorities, no?"

She shook her head, and pulled photograph out of the envelope. "I recently took over the practice of a plastic surgeon, who was murdered." She handed him the photo. "This was one of his patients."

Raul glanced at the photo; then did a double take. Even if he had not just received a phone call concerning Hector Macedo, he would have recalled the face. Every lawman in Colombia had known the face of Hector Macedo. Still, the man was dead. He smiled. "I must admit, the poor gentleman does bear a striking resemblance to Señor Macedo. No wonder he wanted plastic surgery."

Her eyes flashed. "This is not a joking matter, Señor. The surgeon was murdered on the day this man came for a follow-up appointment. All of the before-and-after photos were removed from the file, except this one. It cannot be coincidence."

Posada's jaw set angrily. "It certainly can, doctor. Hector Macedo is dead and long buried. Many witnesses – lawmen and militia – saw him get on the plane before it took off. Two men were seen getting on the plane, two bodies were recovered." He jabbed at the pad in front of them. "This agent from America just called to confirm DNA results for their reports. It is done. Finished."

Ana eyed the number on the pad. "And what do the DNA results say?"

Posada pounded a fist on the desk. "We did not take DNA samples! There was no need!" He stood, trying to control his temper. "I have too many active cases to be concerned with closed ones. If you wish to pursue the murder of the doctor, I suggest you talk to the Brazilian police."

He held the photo out to her and Ana took it, her eyes flashing with anger of her own. "You will see," she said coldly. "He is alive." She turned and stalked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster, and as soon as she was in the hallway, she jotted down the number she had seen on the pad.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don leaned back in his chair and regarded his team. Colby was perched on the corner of his desk, half-sitting, and David and Megan were leaning against the next desk. All of them were holding coffee cups; visibly relaxed. It was a rare slow week; they'd had the luxury of a weekend off, and the pace still hadn't picked up.

"So," Don said, continuing, "The NSA guys don't think anything of it, but I called the police headquarters in Colombia – I had the number of the captain - Colby, you might remember him – Raul Posada. I left a message, asking if they had DNA results. Douglas is probably right – I'm sure it's some flunky of Macedo's who opened the account, but I'd thought I'd check anyway."

He spoke a little flippantly, as if he really wasn't serious about it all, but Colby was frowning, and suddenly he felt the little twinge of anxiety return. "What?"

"I don't know," Colby said slowly. "I wasn't there. It just sounded like there was a lot of confusion, and it was night. Maybe Macedo got off the plane somehow."

Don shook his head. Now he was arguing against the possibility. "There were dozens of police and militia. Some of them saw the pilot pull the plane out on the runway, and then get out and take off running for the jungle. They saw two men get Macedo into the plane; then those men turned and started firing. Both of them were taken down by the militia; then Munoz came out with Charlie. Charlie went down injured in the firefight, and Munoz made it onto the plane. So when it took off, it was just Macedo and Munoz."

Megan was now frowning too. "What if someone else was already on the plane when the pilot taxied it out to the runway? Someone the guards didn't see?"

Don scowled slightly. His team seemed bent on making him a nervous wreck. He was beginning to think Douglas had some merit. His theories weren't nearly as frightening. "Then there would have been three bodies on the plane."

"Not if someone jumped off at the last minute," said David. "It was night, right? Maybe Macedo jumped out as it taxied down the runway."

Colby nodded. "I remember you saying there was just a grassy area beyond the landing strip. Tall grass?"

Don nodded.

"And the grassy area wasn't lit, right?"

Don nodded grudgingly and sighed. "Even so, I don't know if he would have been up to jumping. He'd been drugged – they had to drag him out to the plane."

"Well," said Megan, "we can conjecture all we want – the DNA tests will tell us for sure." She paused as Don's cell phone rang, and he answered.

"Yeah," said Don. "Speaking. You're – wait, hold on." He grabbed pencil and wrote down a name. "Okay, doctor, go ahead." He listened for a moment, and his team exchanged a glance as they saw his face go white. "Okay, listen, we can run that picture through our face recognition database and compare it to a known picture. Is there some way you can get it to us? No – okay – that's fine. Call me and let me know when you'll be in."

He hung up and stared blankly at the phone for moment, then looked at his team. "That was a plastic surgeon from Rio de Janeiro. She took over for a surgeon who was murdered a few weeks ago, and found a picture of a patient in his files. She thinks it's Hector Macedo."

There was silence for a moment; then David spoke. "So she's gonna send the picture?"

"She's doing better than that," said Don. "She's already on her way here herself. Said she can be here late tonight." He rose with sudden purpose. "I need to talk to the NSA – get a protective detail on Charlie, just in case. If Posada calls, you know what to ask him. And if they didn't do DNA on those bodies, tell him he needs to get it done ASAP."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie rubbed his face wearily as he listened to Don arguing with the NSA agents over his office phone, which was set on speaker. True, he'd been a little disconcerted at the news that a woman from Brazil apparently had a picture of Macedo, but the more he thought about, the less likely it seemed that it might really be him. Someone who looked like one of the world's most heinous drug lords might well want to get his face changed. He had to agree with Douglas on this one; he really thought that Don was over-reacting a bit.

He stared at the paper in front of him a little stupidly, half listening to their voices float through his office. He'd gotten a whopping two hours of the sleep the night before – he was up grading tests until four in the morning, passed out with his clothes on until six, and got up to input the grades before classes started. Thank God, his summer courses were nearly over. All he could think of was home, and a nap. Maybe he could talk the NSA agents into one before he went back to work on the accounts tonight. Douglas had found that shortly after the money was deposited in the West Indies bank, it was sent on to another account, to yet another remote island bank. That bank was no more accommodating than the first one – it did give withdrawal amounts and dates, but no destinations, no names. Charlie was facing another night of work after school.

He glanced down at the note that Douglas had left him, telling him where the new office location was. They'd had to move the computer – the note was scribbled but Charlie could make out something about the satellite downlinks. He didn't recognize the address, and he had half a mind to ask Douglas where it was, but he stopped himself. This was his city – Douglas wasn't even from here, and Charlie didn't want to admit to the arrogant man that he didn't even know his own town. His father had gotten him a GPS for his birthday – he'd plug in the new address. In fact, if the NSA agents were driving behind him, like last night, he could lead them right to it.

Don hung up the phone, and gave a nod of satisfaction. "They said okay – Douglas and Rutherford will cover it until you're done tonight, and then they'll have a couple of guys watch the house once you're home."

His heart twisted a little as Charlie looked back at him. The past months had taken their toll; Charlie still looked thinner than he had a year ago, tired, pale. Don knew it had taken all his brother had to return to school, to get to where he could operate somewhat normally, and Amita was never very far from his mind. He didn't need this additional stress, just when he was getting back on his feet.

"It'll be okay." He'd been about to utter the same words, but Charlie had beaten him to them, and his brother continued. "Think about it, Don. It couldn't possibly be Macedo."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie did get a nap; he'd called and left a message with Douglas that he'd be ready at seven, and he got two hours in after he got home. They showed up in the dark sedan promptly at seven, and Charlie made groggily for his Prius, taking a good slug of the coffee that Alan had waiting for him. Somehow, those two hours of sleep made him seem more tired, and he was extremely grateful for the GPS. It turned driving into a no-brainer.

He followed the directions almost absently, not noticing until several blocks later that he must have lost the NSA agents at a stoplight. He slowed, but kept driving, figuring they would catch up. He really wasn't worried; they couldn't be that far back.

He was in a rather deserted section in East LA now, mostly warehouses and some offices, and the GPS instructed him to pull into a side street, dissected by short narrow streets and alleys, wandering like canyons between the looming warehouses. It didn't look right, and he frowned a little and looked behind him, and when he saw no car, he pulled out his cell phone. Douglas's phone was busy, and he didn't have Rutherford's number. He hit speed dial, cruising slowly with the phone to his ear. He was coming up on the address, and it looked like nothing more than another warehouse. Don's voice mail came on, and he left a message. "Don – hey, this is Charlie – I went to the new address on the note, but I think I lost them, and Douglas' phone is busy. Do you have Rutherford's number? Or better yet, have them call me, and make sure I'm at the right place – the note says 121 H Street, in Commerce. I'll keep trying Douglas. If you don't pick this up in the next few minutes, just forget about it – I'm sure we'll have figured it out. It's 7:20 – talk to you later."

He pulled forward, and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the dark sedan turn on the road behind him, headlights swinging around to illuminate his rear window. There they were. Okay, this looked like the place. He pulled his car down an alleyway and up next to a warehouse doorway, parked, and stepped out, stretching a little; waiting for them.

Hector Macedo cruised down the block, a smile creeping to his face. It had worked like a charm, his plan. He'd switched rental cars that morning, using yet another fake ID, and picked up a dark sedan to keep from being spotted as he trailed the agents. He'd left the note, indicating the new address, and had joined the cars as they traveled in traffic. At just the right moment he'd cut off the agents, and stopped at a light that Eppes had gone through, blocking them from following. Just two blocks ahead, Eppes would turn left to go to the new address in East L.A., and a few moments later, the agents would hit the same intersection, and turn right to go to the old one, in Huntington Park.

There were many places that such a plan could have failed – the professor might have talked to the agents and realized that the note was false, or Macedo perhaps would not have been able to cut off the agents so neatly – but the plan was so low risk, it was worth a try. If it had failed, he would still have been free to try again. And it appeared that it was working. Even if Eppes succeeded in reaching them on his cell phone, he would still be alone for several minutes – and that was all it would take.

End Chapter 4


	5. Marathon Man

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 5: Marathon Man**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Douglas scanned the block ahead with increasing irritation. "Where in the hell did he go?" he crabbed at Rutherford, who was driving. "We should have caught up to him by now."

Rutherford shot him an anxious look as Douglas punched angrily at his cell phone and put it to his ear. "Busy," he muttered. "Probably was yakking on his phone, and made a wrong turn. Damn egghead probably doesn't even realize it yet."

"So what should we do?" asked Rutherford. "Should I turn around?"

Douglas shook his head with resignation. "No - he's bound to figure it out soon. Just head toward the office, and I'll keep trying to raise him on his cell phone."

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Don pulled on to Highway 10, and glanced at the clock in the dash. Almost 7:20. He flipped open his cell phone. "Hey Dad, it's Don. Yeah, not too bad. Did Charlie leave yet? Were Douglas and Rutherford with him? Okay, good. Yeah, I need to talk to you about that – something's come up, and we're putting a protective detail on Charlie – no, don't worry, it's just a precaution. I'm gonna stay at the house tonight if it's okay – I'm on my way over – I'll talk to you about it when I get there. Okay – yeah, pizza's great. See you in a few."

He snapped the phone shut and shook his head. Obviously, by Alan's reaction, Charlie hadn't told him yet about the detail that was being assigned for his protection. The phone beeped, and he flipped it open to see the voicemail message indicator. He retrieved the message, a frown coming to his face as it spun out.

"_Don – hey, this is Charlie – I went to the new address on the note, but I think I lost Douglas and Rutherford, and Douglas' phone is busy. Do you have Rutherford's number? Or better yet, have them call me, and make sure I'm at the right place – the note says 121 H Street, in Commerce. I'll keep trying Douglas. If you don't pick this up in the next few minutes, just forget about it – I'm sure we'll have figured it out. It's 7:20 – talk to you later."_

"New address?" muttered Don to himself as he exited voicemail. He glanced at the clock – 7:21 – Charlie must have called while he was on the phone with Alan. Better try to get hold of them, in case Charlie hadn't already. Douglas' number came up first on his list, and he hit dial.

"Hey, this is Eppes," he said, as Douglas' voice came on the line. "Did you guys hook up with Charlie yet?"

Douglas' voice sounded suspicious. _"No. How did you know we got separated?"_

"He just called me and left a message. He said your phone was busy, and that he didn't have Rutherford's number. He told me if I got hold of you to check to make sure he had the right new address."

There was moment of silence on the other end. _"New address?"_ Douglas sounded bewildered. "_What new address?"_

Don's stomach tightened. "121 H Street in Commerce. He said you guys left him a note." He paused, praying he wasn't going to get the response that he was afraid he would.

"_We didn't leave any note_." The bewilderment in Douglas' voice was giving way to apprehension.

"Shit," Don breathed, as fear slammed into his gut in earnest. "Where are you guys?"

"_Almost to Huntington Park."_

Don stepped on the accelerator and got into the right lane. "Turn around, and get to that address as fast as you can. I'm gonna try to get Charlie on his cell. I'm on 10 right now, I'm gonna take 710 south and meet you there."

The exit for 710 was coming up and he disconnected the cell phone and veered off, passing a startled motorist on the exit ramp by squeezing by him on the shoulder, as he punched on his lights. From a distance standpoint, he was almost as far away from Charlie as the other agents were, but his route was almost all highways, and their route had several stoplights. He would take a short jaunt down 710 to 5, which would dump him off right on Eastern Avenue in Commerce – just blocks from where Charlie was. Chances were he'd get there first. He hit Charlie's number on his speed dial and held his breath as he tore down 710. "Come on, Charlie, pick up."

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Charlie stood watching and smiled a little smugly as the headlights turned down the alley. He'd not only found the place, he'd beaten the agents there by a good margin. Wouldn't hurt to needle them a little. 'What took you so long?' waited on his lips as he watched the sedan round the corner. His phone rang, and he glanced at the number. Don calling back. He felt a little guilty about disturbing him now. He started to flip it open to answer it, when he realized that something was wrong.

He hadn't been looking at the car, but he could hear the engine, could see the growing glow from the headlights. Instead of the slowing, the engine was revving, the lights growing brighter much too fast. His head snapped up, and he realized with a shock that the vehicle was gathering speed, and coming right at him. He reacted instinctively, and threw himself over the hood of his Prius, rolling awkwardly but landing on his feet in front of the car, just as the vehicle swerved past him, coming so close that it scraped the front fender of the Prius.

He got a look at a dark figure silhouetted in the driver's seat as the vehicle spun around with a screech of tires. Only one – not two. Not the agents. His heart, pounding from the sudden shock, went into overdrive as the engine revved again, and the tires screamed in protest. His legs followed his heart, and he turned and ran through the narrow gap between his car and the building, racing for the corner of the alleyway, as the car accelerated behind him.

He turned the corner and plastered himself against the building, breathing heavily, fumbling for the phone in his pocket, counting on the fact that he could maneuver more easily around the corners. The sedan shot out the alleyway and veered left down the street right in front of him; and as soon as it had passed, Charlie shot across the alleyway entrance and down the street in the opposite direction.

The driver of the car picked him up in his rearview mirror almost immediately and screeched to a stop, but he was facing the wrong way, and had to take precious seconds to turn around. Charlie pounded down the pavement, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his cell phone clutched in his hand, his eyes roving the street wildly, searching desperately for an open building; another sign of life. There was nothing – the warehouses were all closed this time of night, and as he heard the tires squeal behind him again, he made a sharp right and ducked between an opening in the buildings. It was another alley, darker and narrower than the first, and he raced down it, his legs pumping; his knees wobbly with fear.

There was an entranceway a third of the way down the alley, and he threw himself into it, just as the car turned the corner. He could hear it barreling down the narrow alley, picking up speed. This time he waited until it was well past before he darted out again, and ran back up the alley the way he had come. This alley was too narrow for the car to turn, and the driver must not have seen him in the rearview mirror immediately, because he got all the way back to the end of it before he heard the car reverse, and back up behind him, careening haphazardly backward up the alley.

He had the fleeting notion to run back for his Prius, but he knew that the car would reach him before he got there, and he'd be trapped in his car – something that he couldn't afford if his attacker had a gun. Instead, he turned right and ran further down the street, hitting speed dial as he ran. His legs were on fire; his breath burned his windpipe as he gasped for air, sprinting down the block, praying to reach the next alley before the car caught him. He plastered the cell phone against his ear, holding it tightly, trying to keep it from moving, as he ran with increasingly jerky movements.

His leg had healed, he'd thought. He had gotten rid of the cane months ago, but the old injury was making itself felt; the fatigued muscles were making the inherent weakness apparent. It felt odd and shaky, as if he couldn't control it, and his gait was become more erratic. His brother's voice came on the line, and he struggled for enough air to speak. "Don – someone – in car – trying to – kill me -," he managed between great gulps of air. He was at the alley now, and as turned into it he could see that this one had another cross street at the end of it, and he charged toward it, with all of the speed he could muster.

Don's voice came over the line, taut, incisive. "_I'm on my way – I'm nearly to H street – where are you?_"

"Two blocks down," gasped Charlie. He was two thirds of the way down the alley now, and he could hear the car behind him, gaining speed. "On foot."

"_Keep your phone on – I'll be right there._"

If there was anything else, Charlie didn't hear it. He needed his arm down and pumping to give him extra speed; the car was too close. He barely made the corner, ducking again against the wall as the vehicle turned right behind him, brushing the corner with the ugly grate of metal on concrete, passing by within inches. Charlie instantly slipped back around the corner and headed back down the alley, but the driver was wise to the maneuver by now and had anticipated it. He had stopped immediately and began turning as soon as he rounded the corner, and Charlie was only halfway down the alley before he heard the sedan coming again.

He was well into oxygen deprivation by now, his muscles screaming, his lungs burning, his head pounding. He could hear the car, see the end of the alley, and he knew he wasn't going to make it. Somehow, he mustered an extra spurt of speed and reached the alley entrance just as the car did. He tried to make a sharp left at the corner, but his left leg buckled, and he didn't quite reach it. He felt the horrific impact with his right hip, and then he was airborne, sailing helplessly through the air, end over end, not sure which way was earth. His body careened off something metallic, pavement rushed up to meet him with frightening speed, and then there was only blackness.

End Chapter 5


	6. Brothers, Enemies and Friends

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 6: ****Brothers, Enemies and Friends **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Pursuit was not an option.

As his headlights lit up H Street, Don watched his little brother squirt out of an alley, a dark sedan in close pursuit. He swore under his breath and increased foot pressure on the gas pedal – if that was possible. Within frozen moments, though, Don found himself an unwilling and unbelieving witness, as the car caught up to his brother and Charlie involuntarily vaulted over the hood of the pursuing vehicle. His trajectory sent him backwards, and he careened off a dumpster near the mouth of the alley; then thudded to the pavement; and that was all his eyes could see. It barely registered somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind that while his SUV was drawing closer to Charlie, the dark sedan – having done its damage -- was squealing down the street, away from them. Screeching to a halt when he reached the entrance to the alley, Don fumbled frantically with his seatbelt and didn't even call in the accident. His single purpose in life was to reach Charlie.

Practically falling from the vehicle, Don hit the ground at a run. His shoes slapped on the asphalt in perfect time with the heartbeat that thumped in his ears. "Charlie!" He skidded to a stop at the crumpled body and hit his knees, reaching out shaking hands. "Charlie!"

The lump moved slightly, as his brother rolled off his hip onto his back. He blinked up at Don. "Wha? Time to get up?"

Don ran a hand down Charlie's arm, petting him and holding him in place. "No, no, Buddy, don't move. Stay down." He finally remembered to fumble in his pocket for his cell phone, but froze when yet another pair of headlights bore down on them. He clutched at Charlie's arm, bending over him protectively. Was he back, then? Had Macedo returned to finish the job?

Charlie grunted and pushed feebly against Don's chest. "Get off me," he pleaded, his voice muffled. "I didn't touch your stupid mitt. I never play with your stuff. Anymore."

The dark sedan skidded to a stop. Don had given up on the cell and was unholstering his gun. "Shhh," he whispered, staying right where he was. "Just be quiet, Charlie..."

Both doors opened and the car began to disgorge its occupants. Don sat back on his haunches far enough so that he could train his service weapon on the one closest to him, coming from the passenger side. In the glow of the headlights he thought he saw hands rise in the air.

"Eppes! Stand down. It's Douglas."

"And...and Rutherford," came a decidedly-more-nervous voice from the driver's side of the sedan. "What happened? Is that Charlie? Do you need an ambulance?"

Don wobbled, sighed, and holstered his weapon again. "God, yes," he breathed, his attention on Charlie again. He lunged forward to stop him as the younger man struggled to sit up. "Get somebody!" he yelled. "Charlie, stay down. Stay down."

His brother continued to fight against him, moving his head fretfully. Charlie responded in a voice thick with confusion and tears and eerily reminiscent of a toddler awakened from a nap. "Lemme up. Whyzmy leg hur?" His voice degenerated into a whine. "Donnie...where's Mom?"

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Hector/Jorge gripped the steering wheel tightly with his gloved hands and swore under his breath, checking the rear view mirror one more time. In just a few more miles, he could ditch this rental. Just leave it on the street, and walk away. Let the East L.A. gangs war over who got to strip what. He was fairly certain he had not been followed, but still it took an astronomical amount of willpower to ease up on the gas pedal and obey traffic control devices. Red lights. Stop signs.

He was angry.

He was seething.

He had not built such a successful business by being foolish, and yet he had pushed that envelope tonight. He had allowed his common sense to be overtaken by his passion, and it was only luck that had allowed him to escape. Now, the professor was still not dead -- he knew the car hadn't hit him squarely or hard enough for that -- but his security detail would be tightened in response to this incident. It had been too many years since Macedo had done his own dirty work. His skills were rusty, and as he pulled to the curb he knew this was not a problem he could solve on his own. As grating as it was to his pride, he needed help. He needed to fall back, regroup, come at this from a different angle.

Part of him knew this...obsession…was dangerous. He should take the money he had left and start over. Maybe even here, in the States. There was no-one to help him -- Rafe and others he has trained and trusted were long gone, and he was alone. He had found out just how alone when he tried to reach some of his old American contacts upon his arrival in L.A. They had been well-insulated, cocooned in the center of the cartel, and should have been safe. Macedo had yet to ascertain what had happened to them – to _all_ of them. Thinking of the empire, the army, he had lost, only made him angrier and more determined. He would not let his prey escape punishment for his sins.

He would think of another way.

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Glaring overhead lights in the trauma bay were extinguished, leaving the area lit only by the light streaming in from the main corridor. Still, Charlie's eyes were squeezed shut against the intrusion. From his constant fidgeting on the bed, Don knew that he wasn't sleeping.

The FBI agent paced the length of the room a few times and paused to check the hallway through the gap in the drawn privacy curtains. Douglas and Rutherford had agreed to turn up the security detail, and he was relieved to count at least four agents stationed in the hall. There damn sure better be more outside. They promised to put someone on the house as well. While Charlie was down in X-ray, Don had reached Merrick, and received permission to use one of the safe houses. He would take Charlie there as soon as he was released. Megan and Colby were escorting a no-doubt protesting and confused Alan there, now. David would take Dr. de la Cruz to the safe house straight from the airport, probably around midnight. When Don had finished that series of calls, he had placed one more, to Bob Tompkins. That had been a waste of time and cell-phone minutes; the man had nothing to offer. Some friend of Charlie's he was turning out to be! He sighed, rubbed at one eye, and turned away from the curtain, headed for the back of the room again.

"Stop that infernal pacing," Charlie suddenly said, and the sound of his voice was so unexpected that Don froze beside the bed. "I'm all right."

Don allowed sarcasm to leak into his response. "Right. That explains the road rash. Maybe even the disorientation. Having some trouble with the broken hip, though."

Charlie's eyes opened a slit and he regarded his harried brother. "It's not broken," he admonished mildly. "You heard the doctor."

Don put a hand to the back of his neck and massaged. "Yes, I did. Did you?" He was frustrated, and scared, and he hated both of those things. "Dammit, he said _'probably'_, Charlie, and sent you for X-rays. Over _an hour_ ago!"

Charlie's brow furrowed and he closed his eyes again. "I remember the part about 'moderate concussion'. Could you please not yell at me?"

Don sighed again, and hung his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "I'm sorry. They should bring you something for pain. I'd go find that idiot doctor, but no way am I letting you out of my sight."

"Not a problem," Don heard from behind him. He whirled to face the intruder, and Charlie's eyes popped back open. "Dr. Idiot, at your service. Would you care to discuss your brother's injuries?"

0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Bob Tompkins leaned back in the overstuffed leather chair and raised his hands to chin-level, interlacing the fingers. The creak of the door was louder than his sigh, and he looked guiltily across the room.

"Bob? Is everything all right?"

He smiled at his wife, and moved his hands to the expansive oak desktop, placing them upon the surface deliberately and slowly. He spoke quietly, loathe to disturb the night. "I'm sorry, Marcia. I didn't mean to wake you. Everything is fine, dear, go back to bed."

She hesitated in the doorway, and pulled the robe around her middle more tightly. "I could make coffee..."

He half-stood, pushing up against the wood. "No, thank you dear," he murmured. He genuinely appreciated this woman, and the years of steadfast loyalty and support. He hoped that she understood that. She understood so many of the unspoken words between them. "I'll be up soon."

As he had known she would, she heard the dismissal in his tone, and knew that it was time to leave him to the work he must do. "All right, then," she yawned. "Don't be long, sweetie."

He settled back in the chair until her footsteps on the stairs faded and he knew she was far enough away. Then he cleared his throat, slid open the top center drawer of the desk and withdrew a cell phone. The only light in the room originated from a small lamp on the corner of the desk, and he leaned a little to the right so that he could clearly see the keypad. He entered the number, and waited, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the desk.

"Good Lord, Bob, it's the middle of the night!"

Tompkins arched an eyebrow. "Still, you must have been awake -- it only took a ring-and-a-half. Or are you taking your phone to bed, these days?"

A sarcastic snort of laughter. "Bed? They let you NSA guys go to bed? At the State Department, our work is never done. I'm still at the office."

"Good to know I chose to play for a nicer team," Bob answered.

"Now, now, Bobby. You know we all play for the same team."

Tompkins' voice hardened, and all jovial pretense was gone. "Do we? Then perhaps you can explain why one of my most treasured assets was nearly killed, tonight."

A few moments of silence greeted his question. "You're gonna have to give me a little more to go on," he finally heard.

"Elliot. You told me several months ago that Penfield's deal was on a need-to-know basis. Well, I'm the Director of the National Security Agency of the United States of America, and I need to know. Someone tried to kill Dr. Eppes in L.A. tonight. Did Penfield give you Macedo? Is he alive?"

"Holy Mother of...shit, no, Bob! Do you know how many witnesses saw that plane go down? Law enforcement from several different countries!"

"I need to know," Tompkins repeated. "My sources tell me the Colombian government neglected to complete DNA testing on the remains."

"_Sunuva bitch_. Look, I'll get on that tomorrow. If they can't afford it, I'll have everything shipped to the States. But I'm telling you, it can't be Macedo. Even if he was alive, there's no way he could get in. All of his known aliases are still flagged. After all the publicity, his face is better-known than the President's."

Tompkins continued to push. "I would be more convinced if I knew what Penfield gave you."

He counted a full 15 seconds of silence before a tired sigh came over the line. "Only because I know this is a secure line; and because you and I go back. I know I can trust you to return the favor, someday."

Tompkins' tone was noncommittal. "Mmmm."

Another sigh, exasperated this time. "Here it is. There were dirty agents in at least three of our federal agencies. Penfield collected names, bank account numbers -- the entire time he was working for Macedo, he was gathering enough ammunition to cover his own ass, just in case things blew up. He's been helping us clean house."

Tompkins clutched the cell more tightly and closed his eyes. "Three agencies?"

Elliott chuckled, although he clearly was not amused. "Don't worry -- the NSA is clean. We weren't, though. Neither was the DEA." His second attempt at laughter was more genuine. "Of course, it goes without saying that the CIA has a few issues."

Bob relaxed his hold on the cell and smiled. "What were you saying about _'playing on the same team'_?"

"Touché, Bob, touché. Listen, as far as I know, everyone who is compromised has been apprehended. Besides, Penfield gave them up, not Eppes – although they might not all know that, yet. Maybe one of them put out a hit?"

Tompkins raised his free hand from the desk to rub at his brow. "If it's not Macedo, it could be anyone. Doesn't have to be related to the whole South American operation – Dr. Eppes consults for the whole damn alphabet."

"Good point. Probably somebody right there in L.A., some case he worked on with his brother. All I know is that Hector Macedo is a crispy critter."

Bob stifled a yawn and glanced at the digital clock at the base of the lamp. "I appreciate this, Elliott. If Agent Eppes calls again, I'll attempt to reassure him."

Elliott guffawed into the cell. "Agent _Don_ Eppes? How the hell do you intend to do that?"

Bob smiled again. "I'll just tell him the truth." He waited until he heard the hiss of protest to finish his thought. "This incident is his problem, in his backyard, and not within NSA parameters of jurisdiction."

"Good luck with that," Elliott began, but soon found that he was talking to dead air. Bob Tompkins had hung up on him.

End, Chapter 6


	7. A Polygon Having Three Sides

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 7: ****A Polygon Having Three Sides**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Don was prepared for Alan to be disgruntled, but he was starting to get pissed off with Charlie.

It had actually been disturbingly easy to shuttle Alan off toward bed, once he had gotten a good look at his youngest and was convinced that Charlie was alive, if not exactly well. The gentleman in question had insisted on staying up with Don and waiting for David to bring Dr. de la Cruz to the house. Don was more or less certain that it was a coincidence that he had started to lose patience with Charlie as soon as the young woman had been ushered into the living room. His frustration with his brother had nothing at all to do with the fact that he couldn't seem to look away from Dr. de la Cruz' eyes.

Now, Charlie – who refused to give in to the Vicodin – sat on the sofa sipping ginger ale and glaring at him over the rim of the glass. "If I had my laptop and scanner," he began again, "I could run some facial recognition software…."

Don cut him off impatiently. "You just happen to keep that sort of high-tech gadget lying around your laptop, Charlie?" He grinned apologetically at the dark beauty standing at the edge of the living room. "He's angry because I wouldn't stop at his house on the way here and let him 'pick up a few things'."

Charlie made a slight growling noise, but Dr. de la Cruz smiled with perfect white teeth that didn't distract Don at all. He only missed Charlie's next protest because he was tired; not because he was having difficulty ignoring the slight scent of violet that followed the doctor everywhere.

"Don't talk about me as if I wasn't in the room, please. We should all be at your office, then." Charlie winced slightly as he shifted on the couch to sit the glass of ginger ale down on the end table. He slowly leaned back into the cushions. "The sooner you accept the fact that Hector Macedo is not the man in this photo, the sooner you'll get a grip and all this nonsense will stop."

Ana brushed past Don, who was sitting in a recliner facing Charlie, and he found himself looking up directly into her eyes. They crinkled as she smiled, and he smiled in return. Reaching the couch, she sat carefully on the other end, obviously trying not to disturb the injured man. "Dr. Eppes…Charlie," she began in her silk chocolate voice, and Don almost wanted to close his eyes. "I understand your brother's need for caution. From what I've been told – what I know -- Hector Macedo did horrible things; to you, and many others. You have seen the photograph. I'm sure in your heart you agree that there is a striking resemblance that must be quantified."

Charlie's own eyes had descended to half-mast, but still he fought the pull of the pain killers and struggled more fully awake. "I know," he finally admitted quietly, looking first at Don and then Ana. "I just wish we didn't have to wait to find out. Macedo took too much from me already. Now his apparition is back, taking more. My time, my peace…"

His voice trailed off, and there was silence for a moment. Then Ana spoke again, her voice rich and soft, like cashmere. "This you cannot allow," she started. "Yet I believe I can understand your apprehension. Macedo took things from me, as well. My childhood, my family, even my country. Because of him my mother sent me away"

Charlie frowned, dismayed at his own self-absorption. "I'm sorry. I just assumed you were from Rio."

She smiled again, although a trifle sadly. "It is all right," she assured him. "I was born in Colombia, but I was actually educated here, in the U.S. My mother sent me to a private school here when I was only 13, and then I attended university in upstate New York. I completed my medical degree and further studies at Harvard. I was able to serve two residencies – my mother always managed to send me money, all those years. I begged her to come to the States and live with me, especially when I accepted a partnership in Boston. The pay was more than adequate, and I felt it was time for me to take care of her." Her face darkened and her voice took on a tinge of bitterness. "She refused. I thought it was because she did not want to leave her homeland, but I could not return to Colombia. I hoped she would compromise, and come with me to Rio when I decided to join Dr. Fuentes' practice." The bitterness grew more pronounced. "She refused again. We argued, and then she was murdered. First I was going to stay in Boston, but then Dr. Fuentes was also murdered, and I decided to assume his practice. I don't know why I continued to hope as long as I did," she finished despondently. "Her employer always meant more to her than I did. She was loyal to him until he killed her. Just as he killed my father before her, and just as he killed my innocence!"

Don had listened quietly to Ana's story, and was starting to get a very uncomfortable feeling. "Who did your mother work for?" he asked quietly, leaning forward a little in the chair.

She tossed long black hair over her shoulder, and adopted a forced air of indifference. She had revealed too much of herself to these strangers already, and was not about to show them any more of her pain. She had to admit, she found both of them…interesting, but she felt she needed to keep her distance, to keep her mind on the objective of her visit. "Hector Macedo," she answered; her voice full of hate. "My mother provided for the medical needs of his organization."

A choking sound emanated from Charlie, and Don looked at him quickly to see if he was somehow choking on the ginger ale. He was startled to see how pale his brother had grown, and to notice how rapidly his chest rose and fell with his breaths. He'd taken Vicodin before; surely, he wasn't having an allergic reaction on top of everything else! Don rose from his chair, concerned. "Charlie?"

Ana de la Cruz had also become concerned, and moved across the couch to place sure fingers on his wrist, at the pulse point. "Dr. Eppes? What are your symptoms? Can you tell me what you are feeling?"

Charlie's eyes welled up with tears, frightening Don even more, and he jerked his wrist away to run his hand through his hair. "I'm…I'm…it's fine," he answered a little breathlessly. "Your mother was Marlita?"

Dr. de la Cruz gasped and sat back as if he had slapped her. "You knew my mother?"

Don hovered uncertainly over the couch. Charlie seemed to be regaining his color, but now it appeared as if the doctor might pass out. He looked rapidly from one to the other, and saw his brother lean toward the shocked woman as much as he could; reaching out to touch the back of her hand. "Marlita was at the compound. She saved my life. She protected me from them, and she treated my wounds." He swallowed. "She was very kind. Very kind. At the end, she tried to help me escape. She told me that Macedo was evil, and must be stopped."

Ana frowned in confusion, blinking rapidly. She glanced up at Don and then back at Charlie. "But…if that were true, if she really believed that, why did she work for him all those years? Why did she choose him instead of me?"

The last question was a whisper, and broke Don's heart. He found that he had to look away, so he looked at Charlie again. Charlie's face was a study in contrasts; fear, pain and despair warred with determination and resolve, and eventually lost. Charlie's voice reflected all that was displayed on his face when he spoke again. "I don't know, Ana. You may never know. But I know the woman who saved my life at Macedo's compound would never choose him over you. Perhaps she had to stay with him _in order _to choose you."

The doctor held his gaze for a long moment, and then stood in one graceful motion. "You should rest, Dr. Eppes. It is late, for all of us, and it has been a long day." She turned her attention to Don, and spoke professionally. "Should he need anything during the night, please do not hesitate to wake me." And with that, she turned on her heel and strode from the living room, leaving the Brothers Eppes in varying degrees of distress.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

_Her head tilted back a little and she smiled up at him. Preoccupied as he was with Don's latest case and the string of numbers on the board, he couldn't help but smile back. He dropped the chalk in the tray, brushing his hand across his jeans briefly before he reached out to lightly touch her cheek. "Good morning," she laughed. "I've been standing here five minutes. I was wondering what a girl has to do to get your attention!"_

_His smile widened and his hand continued its journey to the back of her head as he leaned toward her. "Oh, you have my attention," he said, dipping __his own head__ to nuzzle at her bare throat with his curls. The move was guaranteed to drive her wild, and he knew it. She gasped and moaned in a low voice, and he felt her fists in his hair. "Do I have yours?" he teased._

_She pulled up on the locks firmly, and soon their open mouths met in a kiss. The tips of their tongues played with each other in a timeless tango and…._

"Shit!"

Less than two hours after finally dropping off to sleep, Charlie started awake. It had taken him a second or two of searching the bed next to him before he got his bearings and realized he had been dreaming of Amita. The feeling when he did was no less intense than when he had first lost her, and he cried out the expletive as he worked painfully at sitting up. His hip and his head were both throbbing, and he soon gave up, sinking back into the bed. He bit back tears of frustration, then sighed and whispered it again. _"Shit."_

He rubbed at his forehead, and tried to make sense out of the senseless. Why was he dreaming about Amita again? He had not had a dream about her in months. All the talk of Macedo must have dredged everything up once more. He wiped absently at one escaped tear that was rolling down his cheek and listlessly dropped his hand back to the bed. There was that, yeah. That made sense.

There was also the beautiful, tiny, dark doctor with her shiny and long black hair. She had reminded him of Amita the instant he had set eyes on her. If he admitted the truth, the longer he spent in her presence, the more he ached for his lost lover, his dearest friend, his stolen future.

He allowed a few more tears to leak from his eyes and rubbed absently at his hip for quite a while, forlorn in the darkness. Finally he sighed and again began the slow struggle to get out of bed. It was still too early for more painkillers. Besides, Vicodin wouldn't kill the pain he felt the most at that moment anyway. He decided to work his way toward the kitchen. He was not going to be sleeping anymore tonight, and maybe there was another ginger ale in the refrigerator.

Charlie was reluctant to turn on any lights and awaken the rest of the household, and he hesitated at the door of the bedroom. The layout of this safe house Don had insisted upon was unknown to him, and the last thing he wanted to do was trip over something and break his hip for real. The thought of Don made him decide to chance it, though. His brother was more tightly strung than a violin over this whole thing, and he wasn't going to wake him out of a badly needed sleep.

He opened the door slowly, intending to take his time, and was both surprised and relieved by a slight glow in the hallway. Light was coming from somewhere. Charlie headed toward it. _Follow the light_, he thought grimly, limping down the corridor. When he reached the end, he looked left and then right, as if about to cross a street. The light was coming from the left, so he turned that way and soon found himself in a laundry room. The silent washer and dryer stood like sentries, and Charlie nearly saluted them as he headed for the door at the opposite end of the room. The light was streaming around, over, under and through a set of swinging half doors, and Charlie could see the top of a refrigerator. Ah. Someone was in the kitchen already; or, perhaps they had all gone to bed and left the light on.

He pushed through the doors and almost fell back through them when Dr. de la Cruz let out a startled yelp and jumped up from her seat at the table, her hand at her throat. "_Madre Dios_," she exhaled, recognizing him almost immediately. "Dr. Eppes. You are so silent. Do you need something?" She glanced at her watch. "It is a bit early yet for your pain medication, but perhaps a soak in the tub…I believe the one in the master bathroom has Jacuzzi jets."

Charlie smiled briefly, grateful he had not screamed like a little girl himself. "Please, call me Charlie. And no, I don't need anything. I just…couldn't sleep."

She smiled back, and sat again. "Charlie, then. Please, join me. I too am having difficulty sleeping. Jet-lag."

"Th- thank-you," he responded, suddenly a little nervous. He pulled a chair several feet away from the table and sat down, his unblinking stare unnerving the doctor as well.

After several seconds, she reached a hand to smooth her hair. "Is something wrong?"

Charlie reddened, and seemed to jolt from his fog. "No, no. Forgive me, It's just that you remind me very much of my…of someone."

She dropped her hand to her lap and nodded; her eyes sympathetic. "I see. It is your turn to forgive me if I am presumptuous. When I found the photograph I 'Googled' Macedo, and read again all of the reports. I saw your picture – and that of the young woman. If I remind you of her, I am very flattered. She was quite beautiful; and I am sorry for your loss."

Charlie looked away, took a moment to compose himself, and then looked back. "Thank-you. I am sorry for yours, as well. Your mother was a brave and kind woman."

Ana did not trust herself to speak and merely inclined her head briefly in acceptance. After a period of silence, Charlie went on. "I know that it must have been difficult, to be sent away alone, at such a young age. It must have been difficult for her, as well. She must have wanted you away from him very badly."

Her eyes narrowed and she stood. When she spoke, her tone was barely civil. "What did she tell you? What do you know of me?"

Charlie looked up at her, chagrined, and started to stand himself, grunting as he forced his bruised hip into movement again. "What? Noth…nothing, I'm sorry. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you." He backed toward the swinging doors. "I'll go back to my room…."

"No!" she cried, advancing on him. "Wait!" Charlie froze, and the silence descended again like an anvil. It was somehow harder to take than her unexpected anger, and he regretted…pretty much the whole night. At length she shivered and sighed, and her shoulders sagged. "It is not your fault, Dr…Charlie. Please. Come and sit again." She attempted a grin. "Perhaps a little closer to the table this time?"

Although he wasn't sure he wanted to, Charlie didn't want to offend her again, either. And her eyes were…mesmerizing. So he did as he was asked, moving the chair a few inches closer to the table while Ana walked back to her own chair and sat down. The two sat in silence for so long that Charlie's hip began to seize, and he started to worry that he might topple off the chair. He began to flex his leg in preparation for take-off and cast around his mind for something to say.

She beat him to it, and what she said came closer to knocking him off the chair than the pain in his hip had. "He started coming to my room when I was 8." Charlie's mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. Ana, staring at the table, saw neither. "He made me do things. You're an adult, you read newspapers, work on FBI cases…I'm sure you can figure it out. He would come almost every night he was at the compound." She suddenly laughed bitterly and looked up. "I used to pray that his airplane would crash every time he took a trip, so he would never come back. Sometimes God takes His time answering prayer, yes?"

Charlie's eyes clouded in empathy. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, remembering the prison and how he had felt after his assault.

She didn't seem to hear him. She began to trace invisible circles on the table and continued. "On my 13th birthday, he was there. He had been drinking. He was…rough…and loud. My father awakened and came to my room. When he saw what Macedo was doing, he became enraged, and pulled him from my bed, yelling. There was much noise now, and guards came running. My father was beaten, and dragged from my room. The next day, my mother also was missing for a time, as was Macedo. I did my chores and waited. It was late afternoon before they returned. A jeep full of Macedo's men, and my mother. She was pale, and had been crying. She told me I would never see Papa again – and I never did. I did not see Macedo again, either. He had left on one of his trips, and that night my mother snuck into my room and pressed some _dinero_ into my hand. She helped me climb out the window, where the grocer from town waited. He took the _dinero_ from me, hid me in his truck and my journey to America began."

Charlie had stood near the end of her dissertation and now he repeated his earlier sentiment. "I'm so sorry, Ana. I'm so sorry."

She looked up at him defiantly, and then her face crumpled and she sobbed once before burying it in her hands. "I hate him," she cried. "Dear God, he cannot still be alive! _HE CANNOT_!"

Charlie limped across the few feet that separated them and sunk to his knees beside her chair, grimacing as his hip protested. He wrapped his arms around her, hoping that they could provide a comfort that mere words could not. Ana at first stiffened; then turned her head into his shoulder. He felt two gigantic sobs tear from her before she quieted to tremors against him.

Charlie just kneeled, and held on. After a moment she lifted her head and their eyes caught, and they were still, suspended breathless, too close, for a heart-pounding moment. She gazed into his eyes; there was something – a kindred moment of pain, of longing, and then she leaned forward, her soft lips against his. A surge of something almost painful erupted inside him, and he kissed her back, desperately, one hand in her soft dark hair.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don heard his brother's door open and forced himself to stay in bed. They were in a "safe house" for Pete's sake; Charlie was safe. Maybe he was just going to the bathroom.

His brother should be asleep – but Don wasn't really surprised that he wasn't. He couldn't fall asleep either; he'd been tossing and turning for two full hours. Every time he closed his eyes his mind replayed the terrifying scene of the car hitting Charlie, so Don lay with his eyes open and fretted about Macedo. Each time fatigue would overtake him and he would start to relax, he would find himself thinking about Dr. de la Cruz, and he would severely chastise himself. This was no time to be mixing pleasure with business. What kind of brother was he, anyway? Someone was trying to kill Charlie and Don was getting lost in a pair of dark eyes instead of doing something about it!

Eventually it occurred to him that he had never heard Charlie come back from the bathroom, and he sat up, worried. He grabbed his service weapon from the table beside the bed and slipped out of bed, grateful for the sweats his Dad had thought to pack for his sons. At least he didn't have to take the time to dress.

Stealthily, he creaked open the door and repeated Charlie's earlier actions, following the light. He got as far as the laundry room door; then stood stunned to see his brother and the good doctor immersed in a passionate kiss. His initial relief at finding them both safe soon gave way to jealousy, and he tightened his grip on his service weapon, fighting the ridiculous urge to barge into the kitchen and hit Charlie over the head with the Glock 23. Finally, backing away the way he had come, his emotions returned to self-recrimination. It wasn't as if he had any claim on Ana – they had just met a few hours ago! If Charlie was attracted to her himself, if Charlie was able to move on after Amita, Don should be happy for him.

Damn it, Don should be happy.

End, Chapter 7


	8. Where There's Smoke

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 8: Where There's Smoke…**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Charlie tried desperately to lose himself in the kiss. He wanted nothing more than to feel her, taste her, _inhale_ her again. He closed his eyes and pulled away just enough to whisper her name. "_Amita..._"

Ana's own eyes flew open and she looked at him, startled. Two tears were slowly running down his cheeks, and as she retreated from the embrace he opened his eyes and more spilled out. He made an indiscriminate sound of distress and abruptly let go of her, sitting back on his haunches. "Oh, God. Oh, God." He stared at her with wide and unblinking eyes. "Ana, I'm so sorry."

She took a deep breath and smiled tremulously, reaching out to wipe a tear off his cheek. "No, no, don't apologize. It was...me, it was the moment." A shadow of pain passed over Charlie's face and Ana rose gracefully to her feet, offering him both hands. "You must be uncomfortable. Let me help you."

Charlie looked away for a moment, then took hold of one of her hands with one of his, and pushed against the floor with the other. Between the two of them, they managed to get Charlie standing. Ana had to help him balance as he shifted his weight to the non-injured side. He limped back a step, so that she could no longer reach him. "I'm so sorry," he repeated, whispering. "You look so much like her, and I miss her so much. I don't know what came over me."

To his utter, utter surprise, Ana laughed. She crossed her arms over her chest protectively and a faint blush colored her cheeks. "I wish I could say the same," she answered. "I admit that I find you...attractive, Charlie. Yet it is also true that I sometimes misunderstand -- 'misinterpret the signals', a therapist once said. He said that part of my brain may be permanently short-circuited, due to the years of abuse and loss." She smiled grimly. "One more thing for which to thank Hector Macedo."

Charlie stood silently for a while, then took a few halting steps toward her, so that he was standing very close. He reached out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind an ear. "You are a very beautiful woman," he said gently. "You are intelligent, and compassionate. If I..." He paused, and dropped his hand back to his side. She was regarding her feet, blinking furiously, and he tilted her chin up until her dark eyes met his own. "If I could want another woman right now, it would be you. But I only want who I can't have -- my Amita. I'm not ready to move on yet. I don't know if I ever will be."

This time Ana backed away, bumping into her abandoned chair and continuing on past the end of the table. "I understand," she choked. "Please. Just pretend this never happened."

And then she turned, and fled.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Eric Teagarden loved the night shift.

He had never worked anything else. He was a solitary man, a man of secrets, and he basked in the isolation of the night. There were few other people to contend with; Forensics ran a skeleton crew at night. It was never difficult to find an empty lab. He often managed to go the entire shift without mixing with other personnel on duty.

One of the secrets he kept was his complete and absolute addiction to nicotine. He had tried, several times, to stop smoking. He was a scientist, after all; he knew the damage that cigarettes were wreaking within his body. The most he had been able to accomplish this last attempt was to cut down his consumption. He enjoyed three of his lethal companions per shift: one in the car after he arrived at the F.B.I. building but before entering and starting his shift; a second at 3:00 a.m.; and a third in the car again, before he drove home each morning. Sometimes, he sought out the lounge that was set aside for smoking employees and took his 3:00 a.m. cancer stick there. It was far away from the Forensics wing, though, and small and dingy. There were all kinds of rules for using it, to ensure that no second-hand smoke entered the rest of the facilities. Eric hated it. So, most nights, he used an old coffee mug for an ash tray, wandered to an empty lab if he wasn't already in one, and lit up for the seven happiest minutes of his shift. When the cigarette was gone, he would douse his surroundings with several shots from a can of condensed air, to get rid of the evidence, and no-one was the wiser.

Tonight, Eric entered Lab #4, where the best drum scanner was located, and quietly turned on the lights and closed the door. He had retrieved a faxed DNA findings report from the Colombian government earlier, which he had brought with him, and now he dropped it on the top of a stack of paperwork that sat on the desk nearest the door. He would walk upstairs later, and hand-deliver the reports to someone in Criminal; they had been ear-marked for Special Agent Eppes. He could use the interoffice mail system, of course, but Eppes was a decent guy who always treated him well on the rare occasions when their paths crossed. Eric saw no reason to make him wait an extra several hours for the interoffice delivery system, when it would be so easy to take it up himself.

He would take the results of this facial recognition scan, as well, since Agent Sinclair had said Eppes needed it ASAP. Sinclair had just dropped off the photo a couple of hours ago, and Eric had told him he was in luck – it was a slow night, and they were fully staffed. He had read the fax, of course, so he knew that the scan wasn't really necessary. Preliminary DNA results confirmed that Hector Macedo was not one of the bodies that went down in the plane in Colombia last year; this was definitely going to be his photo. This was big stuff. Internationally-big. Eric was going to do his part to make sure the right people had this information as soon as possible.

He gripped the 3 x 5 photograph in one hand and checked the clock on the wall. He stood for a moment near the door, undecided. Technically, he should still wait almost 11 minutes for his cigarette. Chances were good, however, that he'd be in the middle of running the scan, then. Mind made up, he dropped the photo on top of the DNA reports and reached in his pocket for the soft pack of Marlboros.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Ana lay in the dark and felt the complete fool. If she was honest about things, Charlie wasn't even the Eppes brother she was most attracted to. Sure, he had that hair…and those sad, expressive eyes. Yet, there was something intense, and dark, and slightly dangerous about Don. At the same time, it was incredibly endearing, how he protected his brother.

She hated it when she did something so stereotypically _female_. She was an educated, intelligent woman, who had completed high school at 16 and crammed her first four years of college into two-and-a-half. She was published. She was well-read, and an accomplished surgeon. Why was it, even after years of therapy with some of the best psychologists she could find – and there were plenty to find, in Boston – she still couldn't get it right? Now, things would be awkward. She'd run off like a little girl, and she already knew enough of Charlie to know he would feel terrible about her rapid retreat. He already felt badly about the stolen kiss. What if he confided in his brother? That would be just too embarrassing, and Ana wouldn't be comfortable around either of them anymore – nor would they, with her.

Things were going to be awkward.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Eric inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and savoring the experience. He opened his eyes again and wandered slowly around the perimeter of the room. He stopped at the shelving unit in the corner and grabbed a can of compressed air, which he always used when he was done to dissipate the smoke. He resumed walking, and eventually made a full circle and arrived back at the desk. He was extending his hand toward the old coffee mug he had brought with him and set on the far side of the stack of papers when he heard footsteps in the hall. "Eric?" Damn. His supervisor, Dr. Aaronson, was looking for him!

He looked apprehensively at the door and his hand strayed. When he tapped the hot ash off the cigarette, it landed on Hector Macedo's nose, and the photograph began to melt. At the same time, the scientist's normally well-ordered mind was overwhelmed by the fear that Dr. Aaronson was going to catch him smoking in the lab – again – and this time, he wouldn't look the other way. Frantically he began to squeeze the nozzle on the can of compressed air, arcing it in a circle around his body and dropping the cigarette in what he thought was the old coffee cup – but was in fact the stack of paperwork.

The footsteps were fading into the distance now, and Eric was relieved until he turned around to fully face the desk again and saw the melting photograph. "Shit!" he exclaimed, reaching out to brush the hot ash away. He swore once more when he burned his fingers, and jerked his hand back. He stuck his index finger in his mouth and sucked, bending slightly at the waist to see how much damage the hot ash had caused. The smoldering cigarette was forgotten until a small blue flame licked up one corner of the stack of papers – including the important DNA findings. Startled, Eric automatically pointed the can of compressed air and squeezed out a puff, trying to blow out the fire. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have remembered that the difluoroethane was highly flammable, but he was upset, growing more frightened by the second. When the chemical additive made contact with the flame, the fire exploded into a major inferno on the desk. Teagarden's eyebrows were burned off, he screamed and dropped the can, and the overhead sprinklers engaged. The sleeve of his lab coat had also caught on fire, and he spent a frantic few seconds wiggling out of the garment. As the heat from the fire drove him back, he threw the lab coat as far away from himself as he could – which started a second fire on another work station. "Son of a _bitch_," he cried, finally regaining enough of his senses to remember the fire extinguisher mounted near the door. He tried to take off in a dead run for it, but his slick-soled shoes slipped on the now-wet linoleum floor. Eric windmilled his arms and tried to regain his balance, but just as he almost succeeded his right foot rolled over the air canister he had dropped on the floor. He fell forward heavily, slamming his face on the corner of the heavy desk on the way down. The impact broke both his nose and his orbital bone, and when he face-planted on the floor, bone fragments were driven deeply into his brain. The fires began to die down as the water poured on them, but Eric Teagarden was no longer in a position to care. Instead, he lay dying in the rain from the overhead sprinklers, and the evidence of Macedo's secret was dying with him.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie lay in the dark and felt the complete fool. How could he have allowed that to happen? Ana de la Cruz seemed a good person, a kind woman who had overcome much in her life. In his moment of weakness he had given her even more to contend with. He hoped Ana truly understood about Amita; how she was still with him, in some ways. Yet he could not fully articulate the way in which their souls were intertwined…so how could he expect anyone else to understand?

He wished he could do as she had suggested, and pretend it never happened. Stuck together in this house as they were, Alan at least was sure to pick up on something right away. With any luck, he would blame it on the accident, or the specter of Macedo. Charlie knew he wouldn't be so lucky, with Don. Don had seen Charlie and Ana together earlier in the evening, and he would notice a difference. Charlie sighed, and understood.

Things were going to be awkward.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The First Response Team was able to contain the fire to Lab #4. They did this mostly by allowing the fire to burn out. The agents were levelheaded and trained enough to be aware of the danger of back-drafts, so they left the door closed and allowed the sprinklers to drench everything in the room. The building was constructed largely of brick, so there was no way the fire would break through to the other labs and offices. They were lucky, because Lab #4 was used mainly for running various forensic computer applications, and contained none of the chemicals housed in many other labs on the floor. There was some concern that the fire would reach the storage unit, where several canisters of compressed air were kept, and there would be explosions. In the end, though, the fire was almost pathetically small, considering that someone had died. All that was lost was a few papers – whatever was on top of the desk. Even the desk itself could be refinished, mused Dr. Aaronson. "Tragic," he murmured, standing just outside the door and staring at the desk so that he wouldn't have to look at the charred remains of his former employee. "Just tragic."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don lay in the dark and felt the complete fool. How was he supposed to act now, having seen what he had seen…and feeling the way he felt? He felt terrible for resenting Charlie's…connection…with the doctor. If anyone deserved some happiness, it was Charlie. He should be worried about his brother getting involved too soon out of some kind of psychological rebound – he could end up hurt even worse – and instead he was lying here in a jealous, miserable heap.

The three of them were stuck together in this house, for who knew how long. With Alan thrown into the mix, Don doubted that Charlie and Ana would be flaunting their relationship, so he would have to pretend he didn't know anything, either.

He lifted his hand to rub at his forehead, and sighed.

Things were going to be awkward.

End, Chapter 8

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

_A/N: Much thanks to FraidyCat's supervisor Jeremy, who played the role of Eric Teagarden and devised a reasonable death._


	9. Three's A Crowd

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 9: ****Three's a Crowd**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

The safe house has been hastily stocked with a hodge-podge of foodstuffs. Alan had been gratified to find a tin of coffee, and was still determining exactly what else there was when the aroma drew an exhausted-looking Don to the kitchen. Alan glanced up over the open refrigerator door and frowned. "Good Lord, son, did you get any sleep at all?"

"Is it ready?" Don answered, moving to stand in front of the automatic drip coffee maker on the counter. "Maybe Dr. de la Cruz can just hook me up to this with an IV."

Alan smiled and backed out of the refrigerator, a carton of eggs in his hand, and closed the door. "Give it a few more minutes. Listen, there's not a whole lot here, but I found some bread, and eggs. Milk. I could fix eggs...or..." He arched an eyebrow, an idea occurring to him. "Maybe whip up some French toast!" He looked around the kitchen. "Not sure there's any syrup, though. Can you check some of those cupboards for me?"

Don yawned again and reached for an overhead cupboard. "Thank God," he murmured when he found some coffee mugs. "I found all I need, Dad. You don't have to go to any trouble for me -- I'm really not that hungry."

"Nonsense," Alan answered, pausing in his own search. "Ah. Cinnamon. It's looking good for French toast. Is your brother awake, yet?"

Don moved to another section of the kitchen and shrugged. "Beats..." he started, but Charlie's voice interrupted him.

The younger man pushed through the swinging half-doors. "I'm right here, Dad." He studiously avoided looking at Don, who, after a quick glance, had turned his back on him anyway.

Alan set the container of spice next to the carton of eggs on the counter and beamed at his son. "Charlie!" he cried, hurrying toward him. "How are you feeling, this morning? You look as tired as your brother, did you sleep all right?"

_No wonder he's tired_, thought Don silently as he reached into a cupboard to withdraw a bottle of maple syrup. _He's probably been having sex all night._

Charlie returned his father's gentle hug and smiled as he extricated himself. He intended to keep Alan preoccupied as long as he could, even if that meant utilizing the rather distasteful ploy of honesty. He knew what Alan expected to hear -- "I'm fine" -- so he went for shock value. "I'm a little sore, actually." He sighed dramatically. "It was a difficult night."

Don started pouring himself a cup of coffee. _I'll bet it was. All that action was probably hard on your hip._

Alan's smile faltered a little and he began to cluck, encircling Charlie's shoulders with one arm and guiding him toward the table. "I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps you need to take a stronger pain medication...Come and sit at the table, son." Alan noticed the syrup on the counter and smiled again, broadly. "Oh, look! Don found some syrup. I was going to make French toast. Are you h..."

"I'm starving," Charlie interrupted, not because he actually was but because he knew the statement would discombobulate his father even further. "I never got any real dinner, last night."

Alan hastily pulled a chair away from the table and helped Charlie lower onto it. "Well...well, good, then," he responded. He turned toward the stove. "Donnie, did you find any glasses? There's some OJ in the refrigerator, and your brother probably shouldn't have a lot of caffeine; he should try to nap, after breakfast. Would you get him some juice while I start breakfast?"

Don set the coffee cup down on the counter so hard that a little splashed out. _Get him some juice_, he echoed angrily in his head as he opened the cupboard again. _Thirty-some-odd years later and I'm still the freakin' babysitter..._ "Umphf," he grunted aloud, grabbing a glass and turning toward the refrigerator. While he had been standing at the coffee pot, his back was to Charlie. When he passed the kitchen table on the way to the juice, he saw that Charlie's face was slightly flushed with embarrassment and he was looking pointedly away from Don, staring rather forlornly at the surface of the table. Just like that -- just that easily -- he felt himself calm down a little. His kid brother was obviously not comfortable being the focus of attention, and he must really be hurting to admit to Dad, of all people, that he was 'a little sore'. Don shivered a little in the cold blast of air from the refrigerator and reminded himself how close he had come to losing him last night. Again. He had no cause to act like a jilted lover; his attraction for the tiny doctor might be immense, but he had no claim on her. He carried the full glass to the table and set it in front of his brother, casually squeezing his shoulder. "Here, buddy," he said gruffly before heading back to his coffee.

"Th- thank-you," Charlie practically whispered.

Don retrieved his cup and wandered back toward the hub of activity. Alan was happily stirring a mixture of eggs, milk and cinnamon, and Don paused behind him. "Need anything, Dad?"

Alan mixed away. "I was wondering if we should wake that woman. Dr. de la something, right?"

"NO!" Charlie and Don both spoke at once, loudly. They looked at each other, then both immediately broke eye contact and looked elsewhere.

Alan, startled, jerked and turned to look at Don. "My goodness." Turning back to his mixture, he continued. "You're probably both right. She no doubt has jet-lag. We'll just let her sleep as long as she can."

Don let out a sigh of relief and set his cup on the edge of the table before he returned to the cupboards, looking for plates and silverware. He was almost finished setting the table when the swinging half-doors moved again. Ana was pushing on them from the other side, and entering the kitchen. "Ah, I smell some wonderful coffee," she began. "Good morning. You must be the father. I am Dr. de la..." She stopped when her view of the entire kitchen became clear as she passed through the doors, and she suddenly saw Charlie seated at the table. "Oh!" She stopped walking and looked around uncomfortably, seemingly unwilling to look at Charlie - or perhaps seeking help from some unnamed source. "I did not see...that is...good morning, Dr. Eppes."

Don was carefully placing the last fork on the table, trying not to notice that she was even more beautiful in the light of day, when Charlie jumped up from his chair as if he had been shot. His cheeks flamed red now, and he looked around somewhat desperately. "Good morning," he choked, limping away from the table. "Please. Take my seat. I'm not very hungry."

Alan, who had been drowning a slice of bread, half-turned. "What? You said you were..."

Charlie's color had gone from bright red to slightly green. Don watched in concern as his brother looked briefly at their father; then began to limp toward the opposite side of the kitchen. "No, not hungry," he repeated. "I think I'll just go back to my room." Ana began moving then as well, aiming for the table yet sticking as close to her own side of the kitchen as humanly possible. Don watched the two circle each other in this bizarre fashion before Charlie finally made a retreating dash back through the swinging door; then exchanged a confused look with his father.

_Nope, not awkward at all,_ he had time to think before his father elbowed him and tilted his head toward the doctor, arching an eyebrow. Don got the message, and moved to the table to hold a chair out for her, as if he were the gentleman Alan had tried to raise.

"Thank you," she murmured, and he nearly fell over his own feet trying to get her a cup of coffee. She accepted it with a nod, and he sank into the chair next to her, and took what he hoped was a nonchalant sip of his own coffee.

He watched as she sipped hers, and swallowed hard as her lips found the edge of the cup. She glanced at him sideways, and he swore that he saw it. "It" was that look, the look a woman got when she was interested in him. There it was again. She was flirting, with her eyes. He realized his mouth was open a little in surprise, and he tried to cover it by taking a sip of his own coffee, and starting a conversation. "Did you sleep all right last night?" he asked, hoping he sounded polite instead of prying.

She smiled a bit, and her eyes stayed on his this time. "Not really. I had quite a bit on my mind."

He smiled back, until the impact of it hit him. He was flirting with his brother's love interest, and she was flirting back. What did that say about both of them? He tore his eyes away and scowled at his cup, and when he looked back, her smile had faltered. An uncomfortable silence fell, or relative silence; the kitchen was filled with Alan's clatter. It was broken by the ring of the doorbell.

Don leapt to his feet. "I've got it."

He'd barely made it to the swinging doors when they pushed open, and David emerged through them, followed by Charlie. David looked at Don meaningfully. "He probably shouldn't be opening the door," he said, with a jerk of his head behind him.

Charlie looked a bit abashed, but he protested. "I looked out first. I saw it was David." He glanced quickly at Ana; then looked away uncomfortably.

Don raised an eyebrow, speculatively, but addressed David. "I'm assuming you didn't show up just for breakfast."

"Why not?" interjected Alan, heartily. "We have plenty."

"Actually," said David. "Coffee would be good." He looked at Don; and the regretful expression on his face piqued a flicker of uneasiness in the agent.

"What's up?"

David accepted the coffee cup Alan handed him with a nod. "Maybe we should sit down."

They sat at the table, and since Charlie was the furthest away from it, he didn't get to choose his seat. He ended up in a chair next to Ana, and they traded sickly smiles. Don caught the look and scratched his head. "_That had to be one hell of a session last night_," he thought, as a stab of envy pierced him. "_They can't even look at each other this morning._" His thought was broken as David spoke.

"There was an, uh, incident, at the lab last night," he began.

Ana frowned. "Incident?"

"Yeah, a fire. The lab tech was killed. There wasn't too much damage – they confined it to that room, but the picture and the DNA results were in there. They're gone."

All three of them stared at him with their mouths open, and David shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was only the messenger, but he felt accountable, somehow.

"So what does this mean?" asked Ana. "Was the picture analyzed? Did he send anyone the results?"

David shook his head. "I'm afraid all of the results were there. The computer he was working on was damaged, and he apparently saved his files to the hard drive. We couldn't find them on the server. There's nothing, not even a verbal report – he didn't get a chance to tell anyone what he had. We already called down to Colombia to have them re-send the DNA results, but for some reason, they're hedging now, and are refusing to send them. We'll keep going up the chain of command, and we'll get them to send the results again, but it may take awhile."

Don and Ana's shoulders sagged, but Charlie looked remarkably unperturbed.

"I don't think it was him, anyway," he said firmly. He looked at Don. "I really don't think there's any reason for us to stay here."

Don scowled. "Charlie, someone intentionally tried to run you over. How can you say that?"

Charlie shook his head impatiently. "We weren't far from East L.A. It was probably some gang kid, trying to get initiated. He saw me alone and figured I'd be an easy target."

"Charlie, you don't know that," Don protested.

Charlie got to his feet. "And you don't know otherwise," he shot back. He limped toward the door. "I'm giving it one day. If you guys can't come up with anything, I don't see any reason to stay here." He gave the doors a hard push as he passed through, leaving them swinging behind him.

"I don't know if he is correct or not," said Ana with conviction, "but I know the man in that picture was Macedo." Her shoulders sagged a little. "Now there is no way to make them believe."

"Them?" asked David.

"My government, your government!" she exclaimed impatiently. "He will never face retribution for his crimes." She looked at Don. "I agree with one thing Dr. Eppes said. There is no reason to remain here." She stood, and looked at Alan. "Thank you for the coffee. I am going to try to find a flight back."

Don watched her push through the swinging doors, fighting down the urge to go after her.

He was successful, just barely – but he failed completely at fighting down the surge of disappointment at her words. He would likely never see her again after this, and it suddenly seemed impossible to live with the thought.

End Chapter 9


	10. It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 10: It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Marshall Penfield shuffled slowly into the prison interrogation room and sank into the chair that was indicated, blinking rapidly. He looked at the two NSA agents across from him, and his face twitched – a lopsided exaggerated tic, which made him look for a split second as if he was leering at them. "What do you want?" he asked sourly.

One of the NSA agents, and man named Peters, regarded him with distaste, and leaned over the table, planting his arms on it and his face in front of Penfield's. "We need to know what you know about Hector Macedo."

Penfield's face twitched again. "I already told you everything," he whined, and then his face turned calculating. "Almost everything. What is it you want to know?"

The NSA agents exchanged a glance. "There are rumors," said Peters, "that Macedo is still alive. We want to know if you think that's possible."

Penfield regarded them for a moment. The worst thing about the living hell that was Leavenworth was the lack of contact with anyone even remotely intelligent. He had no family or friends – none who cared enough to visit, anyway, and he craved some kind of connection with the outside world. His allowed visitation periods were non-existent, because he had no one to visit with. He just needed someone, anyone, to talk to… "Before I'll talk, I want something in return."

Peters looked at him with thinly veiled disgust. "And what is that?"

"I need medical attention – I need psychotherapy sessions. With a decent doctor, not one of the idiots who works here. You have no idea what this hellhole is like for someone of my mental caliber."

Peters looked at the other man, who apparently carried rank. The man spoke. "That can be arranged. Talk."

"Well," said Penfield slowly, stalling for time. He really didn't have much to give them, other than what he already had in order to reduce his sentence, so he had to play it up a little. "When I left South America and came back to the States, I was drawing from one of Macedo's accounts. It was the only one I had the password for, but I could view some of the other accounts. After I read in the paper that Eppes," his face twitched again at the name, "had siphoned Macedo's money into other accounts, I got in right away to see if I could still get to the account I was using. I managed to transfer just a bit more out before it closed, but while I was in the system, I looked at the other accounts."

"And?" prompted Peters, impatiently.

"All of them had already been converted to charities and such, except for one – and it was a pretty big account. Money had been pulled out into another offshore bank – it was Macedo's personal account." Penfield's expression turned crafty. "Of course, it may have been Eppes, feathering his own nest."

Peters face was cold. "We know that much. We've already ruled Eppes out." He clamped his mouth shut at a warning look from his partner, and tried to move on, glossing over his slip. "If it wasn't Eppes or Macedo, who else could it have been?"

Penfield face twitched again, and he rubbed it thoughtfully. "I suppose you can't exclude the possibility that one of his people somehow got the account information. However, when Macedo had me try to set up the programming to defeat the money laundering programs, that account was never in the mix. He kept it separate, and he told me even his own people had no access to it. I'd say it would be highly unlikely anyone but Macedo would know how to get access to it, unless Eppes figured it out."

Peters regarded him. "Highly unlikely, but not impossible."

Penfield shrugged, and his face twitched again. "Not impossible."

The other man nodded. "When you came back to the states, did you interface with any of Macedo's contacts here?"

Penfield's expression turned evasive. He had – in order to get advice on how to obtain the untraceable gun. "One or two."

"Did any of them give any indication they'd had contact with Macedo?"

Penfield snorted. "Hell, no. All communications with the cartel were cut off when Macedo went down in that plane. None of them knew anything more than what they'd read in the papers."

"And you've heard nothing in recent weeks."

Penfield stared at them. "In here? Are you kidding me?"

Peters shrugged. "You'd be surprised. Keep your ears open." They stood.

"What about my therapy sessions?" Penfield griped.

The senior agent looked at him coldly. "It will be arranged. You can contact us through your warden if you hear anything concerning Macedo." They stepped out, and Penfield sat, waiting for his escort. The conversation had brought up memories of the hated Eppes, who was never far from Penfield's mind anyway. The only thing that kept him going in here was the fantasy of what he would do to Eppes if he ever saw him again. His face contorted in a spasm again, transforming it into a mask of hate.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Ana pored over the phonebook in the privacy of her bedroom, searching for airline numbers. This trip had been such a waste. She'd taken it on the spur of the moment, driven by the delusion that she could actually do something to put Macedo away, and perhaps in the process gain back some of the self-confidence that she'd lost so long ago. Instead, it had turned out to be a disaster. The one piece of real evidence they'd had was now lost, and she'd gotten herself into an extremely uncomfortable situation in the meantime. She needed to get away, to get out of this house, to go back and regroup. She was certain her presence didn't help poor Dr. Eppes, either; she must remind him of the love he lost every time he looked at her.

She found what she needed and dialed the airline. The first seat she could find back to Rio was on a flight that left at eight in the evening, and she made the reservation. With that done, she stood and fingered the phone book uncertainly. She hated to go out of the room, but she really should bring the book back downstairs.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don paced back and forth in the hallway outside the bedrooms. As he passed Charlie's door, he could hear the tap-tap of computer keys; David had brought Charlie's laptop with him, and his brother was happily reunited with it, already immersed in something. Don's eyes, however, were on the door at the end of the hallway – Ana's. When she stated her intention to leave; his heart had dropped. He tried to tell himself it was because of Charlie, and it was, to some extent. How could she love him and just leave like that? Don needed to fill her in – to let her know how fragile Charlie was, still – that she needed to be careful with his brother's already damaged heart. If that meant she needed to stay a little longer, then so be it.

Still, when he got to the hallway, he hesitated. It really wasn't his business. He knew he should just let it be, but the thought of her leaving was nearly unbearable. The notion took over his feet, and carried them down the hall to her door. He raised his hand to knock, and then stopped in shock as it opened suddenly.

Ana gasped, and they stared at each other for a moment. "I'm sorry," Don mumbled, a bit flustered, lowering his hand. "I just wanted to talk for a minute."

She gazed at him, just drinking in the sight of his face, his masculine body; then realized she was gaping. She collected herself, at least a bit; then nodded. "There is a small sitting room across the hall," she said.

One of the bedrooms had been converted into a small living area, usually used by agents guarding the safe house occupants. Ana sank into a chair, and Don sat in a love seat that was placed near it – too near. He took in her hair, her dark, slightly almond-shaped eyes. It wasn't until she cleared her throat and asked him politely what he wanted to talk about, that he realized he was staring.

He colored slightly. He was usually a lot cooler than this; this woman knocked him completely off-kilter. "I, uh, it's about Charlie." He paused, searching for words. "He's just been through a lot, you know. The prison was horrible – he was beaten, assaulted, and then kidnapped by Macedo. He was nearly killed, and Amita, his girlfriend, died. They were really close, and he hasn't really gotten over it all – he's still very – vulnerable."

She felt emotions whirling inside as he talked. Her attraction to him was so intense, it was all she could do to concentrate on what he was saying, and the fact that he obviously cared so much about his brother was even more endearing. That sensation fought with the realization that, as she suspected, she'd made a big mistake the night before. She never should have kissed the poor man, never should have opened those wounds. Her voice was unsteady as she responded. "I understand; that is why I must leave."

Color rose in his face, and his eyes flashed. "How can you do that? Spend the night with him, and just leave him? That's exactly what I'm talking about."

She stared at him in confusion. "Spend the night – but we didn't…" She started to get a little angry, herself. "He told you that?"

Don flushed, and his brow knit. "He didn't need to tell me. I heard him get up, and when I went to check on him, I saw him kissing you. The way you both were going at it, I didn't need to be Einstein to figure out where it went from there."

It was her turn to flush, her turn for her eyes to flash. "What do you take me for?" she demanded angrily. "There was nothing else – it was just a kiss. He made it clear to me he didn't want me – he said he made a mistake. He told me I reminded him of her." She looked away, and her lip trembled a bit.

"He didn't – doesn't-," Don trailed off. Charlie didn't want her? What in the hell was he kissing her for then? He took in her forlorn expression, and his anger resurfaced. Here he was, feeling sorry for the little jerk! "I apologize, that was thoughtless of him. I can't imagine -,"

She held up a hand. "You do not understand. I kissed him first – he simply reacted and kissed me back. It is all quite understandable. However, if you are concerned that I am 'loving him and leaving him,' I can assure you it is not the case. If anything, I think he will be relieved to see me go." She rose; her cheeks still warm with anger, and Don rose too, blocking her way out.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I get a little – overprotective – sometimes."

She swallowed and looked up at him, acutely aware of how close they were standing, and her face softened. She had wanted to make a snide remark regarding minding his own business – maybe even slap him – but she found that she could not. Unfortunately, she wanted to wrap herself around him even worse. "It is all right – I think that says much for your character."

He smiled faintly at that, and looked a bit embarrassed. "The fact is; I'm the one who doesn't want you to leave."

She blushed and looked down at her hands, and he continued, heading for safer ground with a question. "What will you do when you get back?"

She sighed. "I don't know. I am not certain I want to take on this practice now – if the doctor was in the habit of dealing with criminals, I am not sure I want his patients." She looked up at him. "I like Rio – but I have spent so many years in the United States, I am almost more comfortable here. Perhaps I will look at starting a new practice, somewhere here."

"L.A.'s a great place for a plastic surgeon," said Don softly, and his heart did a somersault as she smiled up at him.

"Yes," she said. "I think it might be."

They gazed at each other; and Don's eyes were captured by eyes, her inviting lips. He knew he shouldn't kiss her, but some irresistible force seemed to be drawing him to her. He bent slightly and grazed her lips with his, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight through him. She lifted her face and he paused, and was about to deepen the kiss, when a familiar voice came from the doorway.

"I thought I heard you guys down here…,"

Don and Ana pulled apart with a jerk, and Don turned to see Charlie's stunned face.

"Oh," Charlie stammered with confusion, and he put a hand to his head, and started walking the wrong way for a step before he got himself turned around. "I'm sorry," he babbled, his face crimson, and the next step took him out of sight, back toward his room.

Don looked at Ana. "Excuse me," he said softly, and she nodded, with a smile.

"Madre Dios," she whispered to herself with a dreamy expression, as he strode swiftly out of the room.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie was already seated at his keyboard when Don entered, his head down, his shoulders hunched. As he heard Don behind him, he lowered his head even further, and lifted his hands to the keyboard – retracting into himself a like a turtle into its shell. As Don stepped forward, he was dismayed to see a large drop of moisture – a single tear – hit the keyboard.

He put an arm around the hunched shoulders, his face filled with concern. "Hey – hey Buddy, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," came the muffled response, and Charlie furtively ran a hand over his face, blinking furiously, head still down.

Don dropped his arm and stared at the back of his brother's head, nonplussed. Now he was completely confused. Apology spilled out of him in a torrent. "I'm sorry Buddy, Ana and I were talking – I mean, I know I saw you kissing last night, but she told me you told her you made a mistake – that she just reminded you of Amita – and so I didn't think -,"

Charlie stopped him in mid-stammer. "You saw us?" He had wiped his face and lifted his head, and shot Don a quick embarrassed glance.

"Yeah - I didn't mean to – I just heard you up and went to check on you. Look, I don't want to get in your way, Buddy -,"

Charlie cleared his throat. "You're not in my way. What she told you was correct. I … I'm really not interested in her."

Don gazed at him for a moment. "Then what's wrong?"

Charlie sighed and his shoulders sagged. "Because I can't help but think I should be – interested, I mean." He looked up, his eyes tortured. "I miss Amita so much; she's always there. She affects the way I look at everything – I don't think I'll ever be able to – to move on, to live again." He looked down at the keyboard again, and the next words were so low, Don could hardly hear them. "It's just a really lonely feeling, that's all."

"Aw, Charlie," Don murmured, and put an arm around him again, his heart twisting. "You will be able to move on, Buddy – it will just take time."

Charlie glanced at him and mustered a brave but tremulous grin. "Don't worry about it – you two really look like you hit it off. By all means, go ahead – you have my blessing." He straightened, took a deep breath, and turned back to his keyboard. "Go on, get out of here. I still have to finish this account analysis."

Ana drifted past the doorway with the phone book and snuck a peek inside. Her heart warmed as she saw Don with his arm around his brother, and she sighed, suddenly wishing she hadn't made that flight reservation. She touched her lips gently with her fingertips, and slipped quietly down the stairs.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Douglas and Rutherford showed up that evening, right after Ana had left for the airport. Charlie had finished his analysis on the account several hours ago, finding a connection to yet another account in Rio. He had reported his findings to the NSA agents by phone, and they planned to meet that night to discuss the outcome.

They collected in the living room, and Douglas sat without being invited. Don Eppes was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking decidedly grumpy. Douglas turned his eyes on Charlie, who was seated. "Well, we followed your account trail. The last one you turned up looks like it was the final resting point – we leaned on the bank, found it was registered to a businessman in Sao Paolo named Jorge Caleña. We're trying to get the Brazilian authorities to track him down, but we're guessing it was one of Macedo's people, who somehow found out how to get access to the account. Probably took advantage of Macedo's death and jumped in the system to skim off some money for himself. We've had other agents making other queries, in the States and elsewhere, and there's nothing to indicate anything else – certainly nothing to suggest that Macedo's still alive. As far as you're concerned, this is a closed issue. We'll deal with tracking down Señor Caleña. You're free to go."

"Free to go!" snapped Don. "Someone just tried to kill him last night! You're just going to turn him out on the street for them to try again? The Macedo issue still isn't resolved, for your information – we still need to get new DNA samples."

Douglas turned a cold stare on him. "And I'm saying it's not an NSA issue any longer. If the FBI wants to launch their own investigation, they can. In fact, considering the number of FBI cases he's consulted on, it's far more likely that any attempt on his life would have come from that direction." He rose, and nodded stiffly at Charlie. "Dr. Eppes. Thank you for your help, and we're sorry for your inconvenience. Take your time packing your things, but I've been informed you need to be out of here by midnight."

They turned to go, and Don stepped forward angrily, ready to continue the argument, but Charlie interceded, quietly. "It's okay, Don. He's right. I just want to go home. I really think this is over."

Don clamped his mouth shut and contented himself with fixing the agents' departing backs with a nasty glare. He had no evidence, nothing solid to stand on, but he had a bad feeling that this wasn't over, not by a long shot.

End, Chapter 10


	11. Catch Me If You Can

\**Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 11: Catch Me If You Can**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Hector Macedo parked his latest rental vehicle at the end of the street, and scowled. Eppes had not spent a long time in the hospital – not nearly long enough for Macedo to formulate a plan to get to him there. When he was released, he appeared to vanish into thin air for a time; Macedo had no idea where they might have taken him. Then yesterday afternoon he'd driven by the Eppes residence, only to find that it again appeared occupied. Unfortunately, it seemed as though it was occupied by protection as well. He had seen two agents changing shifts, and as that day wore on, and the next, he'd identified at least three of them.

The brother was one, of course. He appeared in the early evening, and stayed through the night. During the day, he was there, or the dark-skinned agent, or the agent with the sandy hair and the muscular build. Sometimes more than one was there at the same time. Once, during the day, a woman agent. Then of course, there was the father. Too many people to deal with, and not once had Macedo seen his target emerge from the house. If Macedo had a team of people, he could storm the place and be done with it, but he didn't; there was just him. He'd once had many contacts in the United States, all of whom worked for him, but they were gone now. If they hadn't been imprisoned as part of the cartel takedown, they had slunk off to new lives, new locations. Ungrateful wretches.

No, the only way to get to Eppes would be to draw him out somehow, to get him away from his house, preferably even his city. Somewhere unfamiliar to him, and to the people guarding him. Then, perhaps, Macedo would have a chance. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, turning the thought over in his brain.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don set his cup down on his desk and sat, slumping against the back of his chair. "Any luck with getting those DNA results re-sent?"

Colby shook his head. "They still aren't cooperating. The last time, someone high up in our government leaned on someone high up in theirs. I think we need that to happen again."

Don sighed and shook his head. "I don't think we're gonna get any help there. The NSA has washed their hands of it."

Colby shrugged. "Okay. I'll keep asking. Maybe if I make enough of a pest of myself they'll cave."

Don turned, to find Megan's eyes on him. "What?"

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe this is a wild goose chase, Don. Charlie could be right – he could have just been the victim of a gang initiation rite. We've had three incidences of hit-and-runs in East L.A. that we're attributing to gang activity. We haven't seen any sign of anything suspicious as far as Charlie's concerned since then."

"Yeah, and we won't while he's safe in his house," retorted Don. "It doesn't mean anything. Whoever it is could just be biding his time."

"You can't keep Charlie stuck in his house forever," she chided him.

"Try me," Don muttered to himself. Ana had been convinced the man in the picture was Macedo, and Don had been persuaded by her certainty. The problem was, even if they knew the man was alive, they'd have no idea who to look for. If Ana was right, he'd changed his appearance. With no 'after' photos, they had no idea what he looked like. The man could show up as a janitor someday at Charlie's office, and no one would be the wiser until it was too late. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

He kept a wary eye out on the way home that evening, especially as he neared Charlie's house. Every car, every figure on every sidewalk got a raking over with his eyes, a keen assessment of their threat level. He saw nothing suspicious. He had to admit, there had been no indication anyone was after his brother. He pulled his vehicle behind David's at the curb, and with one more sweeping look as he got out, he headed for the house.

David was up and on his way out as Don entered, with a cheerful 'thanks' flung at Alan. "Man," said David to Don, patting his stomach. "Your dad is quite the cook. I think I gained five pounds in two days. Colby said he's gained six. It's almost worth it."

Don raised an eyebrow. "_Almost_ worth it?"

David shot a cautious glance over his shoulder to be sure the room was empty. "Your brother's in a just a bit of a mood. I think he's getting cabin fever." He grinned, and headed for the door. "Good luck."

Don made his way into the kitchen to find Alan happily wiping clean pots, and Charlie leaning on his elbows, his face in his hands.

Charlie sat up as Don pushed through the door. "Anything new?"

"Hello to you too," replied Don. "No. We still haven't had any luck convincing them to resend the DNA results. We're still working on it. Hey, Dad."

"Hey yourself," shot back Alan cheerfully. "I tell you, it's really rewarding to cook for someone who appreciates it." He ignored Charlie's peeved look. "I think David and Colby have actually been enjoying themselves."

"That makes three of you, anyway," muttered Charlie. He turned to Don. "Look, I know you have my best interests at heart, and I appreciate it, but I think we need to move on here. I'm healed up enough to go back to campus, and even though my summer classes are over, I need to start working on preparing some material for fall."

"I don't know, Charlie," Don began, hedging.

"What's not to know? Look, no one was more shaken up than I was over what happened, but it's over, and I can't live the rest of my life in this house. I need to get out. Can we at least go out to dinner tonight? Dad needs a break from cooking anyway."

He turned imploring eyes on Don, who shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know –," he began again.

Charlie jumped to his feet and interjected before Don had a chance to finish. "It'll be fine. I'm going to go change."

Alan watched him go. "That's the fastest he's moved in three days. It probably would have been better if you'd let him out in the garage – he wouldn't be quite so bored." He looked at Don questioningly. "Dinner out wouldn't be that hard to handle, would it? It has been pretty quiet, and I'm nearly out of groceries anyway."

Don grudgingly acquiesced. "I guess not."

"Good," said Alan. "There's the new little Italian place that opened up – it's a little snooty, but the food's supposed to be good, and the dress code is casual."

"Fine," muttered Don, as he pushed through the kitchen door. It wasn't fine, but he didn't have a good enough argument against going.

He drove, and he made Charlie sit in the back seat. His tension level increased as soon as they left the house, and he continually scanned the roads around him, and peered in his rearview mirror. He frowned, trying to get a view past Charlie's mop of curls. "Sit down in your seat, will you? I can't see out the back."

Charlie rolled his eyes, but complied, moving closer to the door and slumping in his seat. He had to concede, being out made him just a bit nervous, too – in fact, the recent events had him more rattled than he wanted to admit. The talk of Macedo had brought back unbearable reminders – things he was trying hard to forget, without a lot of success. He desperately wanted to shove the memories back down in the black hole in his psyche from which they'd emerged; to claw his way back out of the fog of anxiety that had enveloped him. The last thing he wanted to admit was that perhaps Don was right. It was much easier to think the hit-and-run was a coincidence; and it was over now. That was his position, and he was sticking to it. Anything else was just too frightening to contemplate. He squared his shoulders a little, and set his jaw. There was no one after him; he told himself firmly, Macedo was dead.

Don's sharp eyes found the rearview mirror again. That Nissan sedan – the dark green one. It had been sticking with them, a few cars back, since they'd left the development. Of course, so had the white one in front of it. He swung into the left lane and put on his turn signal, and Alan looked at him. "You're supposed to stay straight here."

"I'm taking the scenic route," Don responded glibly.

Alan sent him a sharp glance, and Charlie shot a worried look over the back of the seat. "Is there someone back there?"

"No, just playing it safe," Don replied, his eyes in the rearview again as he turned. "Sit down." The white car had gone straight, but the dark green one had turned behind them.

Charlie grimaced and faced forward again, sending him a derisive look. "This is ridiculous. Can't we just go to the restaurant?"

"You're the one complaining you haven't been out," Don shot back. "So it takes a little longer this way – just enjoy the ride." He kept his expression bland, but he could feel his heart accelerate a bit as he turned right, and the green Nissan turned behind them, now only one vehicle back. He stepped on the gas a little, and swung around a car in the right lane.

The Nissan followed, jockeying for position behind a Tacoma pickup. Don sailed through a light, which turned yellow behind him, but the Tacoma went through it too, with the Nissan right on its tail. With a twist of the wheel, Don cut across the right lane at the next block and turned right hard, making his passengers sway in their seats.

Alan shot a glance at Charlie, who stared back at him wide-eyed. The senior Eppes fixed his older son with a calculating look. "Aren't you going a bit fast?"

Don's eyes narrowed as he picked up the dark green sedan in his rearview mirror, swinging around the corner behind them, and he floored it. "I thought you were in a hurry to get there."

The SUV surged ahead, and Alan and Charlie gripped the door handles for support. Don shot around the next corner, and made another hard left into a parking lot, pulling the SUV to a stop in a parking place with a lurch, the abrupt change in speed and direction plastering his passengers against their doors. He watched as the sedan turned the corner and continued past them, down the street, and out of sight. Charlie and Alan had collected themselves and were reaching for their door handles when he put the SUV in reverse. "I changed my mind," said Don, "I think I'm going to use the valet parking."

Alan and Charlie exchanged a look that said they both agreed that Don was certifiably insane, and Charlie slouched back in his seat. He was beginning to wish he hadn't asked to go out, and they hadn't even gotten to the restaurant yet.

At the curb, Don shooed them out of the vehicle and into the restaurant, almost herding them into a middle-aged couple on the sidewalk. He hastily handed the valet his keys and headed in behind them, with a glance up and down the street. Just before he entered the doorway, he caught a glimpse of a dark green vehicle coming toward them from the next block.

End Chapter 11


	12. Eppes Marinara

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 12: Eppes Marinara **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Don stepped inside the restaurant quickly, trying to get out of sight. He was not sure if the dark green sedan he'd seen was even the same vehicle, or if the driver had gotten a chance to see him. If it was the same driver, he'd see the SUV, though, Don thought, his heart rate quickening. He'd see the valet moving it; he'd know they were in the restaurant.

He stepped in and looked around, assessing the interior, and gave himself a little shake. He was probably being paranoid, he told himself. Still, he was tingling with nerves. It was early but the place was already nearly full, and the rather stuffy-looking host was showing his brother and his father to a nearby table. Don frowned. It was all wrong – right next to the door, and slightly around the corner. He wouldn't be able to see anyone coming in. He stepped forward to protest. "Excuse me, but can we have the table back there?"

All three of him looked at the one he was indicating – it was in the back, near the kitchen entrance and the hallway to the restrooms. Not exactly the best table in the house from a dining perspective, but it suited Don much better. If anyone came in the front door, they could take cover in the hallway, or duck out through the kitchen. Plus, he could see who was coming in from there.

Charlie rubbed an eyebrow, slightly embarrassed, and Alan sighed; then smiled at the host. "If you wouldn't mind?"

The man looked at them as if they were slightly daft, but shrugged. "Certainly." He led the way, and Don grabbed a seat with a view of the door.

"It's good we got here early," Alan said, as they settled themselves. "They don't take reservations, and I hear there's a line out the door later." He eyed Charlie. "I forgot to ask you son, how's your hip today?"

Charlie glanced away from his brother, who was scanning the room, oblivious to the conversation. He was making Charlie nervous, and it was ruining his appetite. "Fine," he sighed. "It's not sore when I move anymore; just to the touch." He shot an impatient glance at Don, and picked up the wine list. Maybe he would drink his dinner – the rest of them could sit there and be tense if they wanted, but he refused. A little wine would help him relax…

The place did have excellent service; the wine steward was at his side as soon as he picked up the list. "May I assist with a selection, sir?" He pointed. "This Pinot Noir is very nice."

Charlie raised his eyebrows at the price, but nodded after considering for just a moment. It was a rare night when all three of them went out like this, and by God, he was going to enjoy himself, even if super-agent over there wasn't. "That's fine."

The wine steward smiled. "Very good, sir. Three glasses?"

"Two," barked Don, peremptorily, still apparently enamored of the view across the room. Alan and Charlie had the grace to look mildly embarrassed, as the wine steward fixed Don with an arched eyebrow.

"And for you, sir?"

"Water's fine," said Don gruffly.

"Bottled? We have a fine selection."

"No, thanks. I take mine straight from the tap."

The wine steward sniffed. "Very good, sir."

He glided off, his nose in the air, and Charlie and Alan picked up their menus. Don was already holding his, but paying no attention to it. His eyes were riveted on the figure in the doorway. A man had just entered; he was by himself, and he glanced around the room, his eyes landing on Charlie. He looked away, and then back at Charlie, before he was led to a small table. The host indicated a chair, but the man chose the other, sitting so he had a view of their table.

Don dropped his eyes and pretended to be studying his menu. The man vaguely resembled the picture of Macedo – not exactly the same, of course, but his features were within the realm of what one might have expected, if Macedo had undergone plastic surgery. He was the right height, weight, and coloring, and he seemed to be intensely interested in Charlie, he kept raising his eyes from his menu to study him.

Don nearly jumped from his chair as the wine steward reappeared silently at his side, displaying the bottle for Charlie. He forced his thumping heart to slow, as Charlie sipped the sample that had been poured for him. "That's good," Charlie said, smiling at the wine merchant. "Great recommendation." The man beamed back at him, and maneuvered around Don with a look which said plainly, '_At least someone at this table has some taste._' As he poured wine for Alan and more for Charlie, Don scowled at the bottle. It had been open when it came to the table. What if someone had tampered with it?

"Isn't he supposed to open that in your presence?" he muttered, but apparently not quietly enough; the steward sent him a nasty look.

Charlie gave him a stiff smile. "It's fine," he murmured, through clenched teeth, as he took another sip. "Just relax, will you?"

Don frowned, but he dropped the subject. He had to admit, it would be tough for someone to plant himself in a restaurant and tamper with the food or drink, especially if he had no idea they were going to be there. They hadn't known until an hour ago they were coming here themselves. The mystery man at the table-for-one was a lot more worrisome. As he glanced at the man again, Don reached for his pocket and pulled out a piece of gum. It was force of habit; he always chewed gum on a stake-out or a raid; he'd found long ago it alleviated tension, kept him steady. He slipped it in his mouth absently as he glanced at the menu, completely missing the waiter's disapproving stare.

Don managed to irritate the waiter just as thoroughly as he had insulted the wine steward. It took four repeat visits before he could focus himself enough on the menu to order. Charlie and Alan were by now ignoring him, happily into their second bottle of wine. Charlie had selected something with a haphazard wave of his hand, not realizing or caring that he'd ordered a dish with squid in it, which he normally detested. He was decidedly giddy; the wine had a much stronger effect on his slight frame than it did his father. As Don finally picked out an entrée, Charlie smirked, and looked at Alan, who smiled back indulgently, with a glazed look in his eyes. "Ooh," Charlie slurred, with mock amazement, "sssecret agent man fine-ly ordered." He put his wine glass down with a plunk, and stood suddenly. "Scuse me, need to use the ressstrooms."

The man at the other table was staring now, with decided interest, and Don was immediately on his feet. Charlie scowled at him, swaying a little. "I can go by myssself."

Don grinned at him, tightly, with a chomp on his gum. "I need to go too," he lied. "That water went right through me. After you." There was no way he was letting Charlie out of his sight, especially not to a restroom in a dim secluded hallway. He followed his brother's weaving figure, with a quick glance at the man at the other table. The man was staring at them, but stayed put.

The restroom was still under renovation, and the urinal had an out-of-order sign on it, which took Charlie a moment to recognize, before he lurched for a stall, slamming the door much harder than he needed to. It made Don wonder if his brother was merely lacking equilibrium or was upset, but when Charlie's voice floated out, it was good-natured. "You need to lighten up. Relask a little."

Equilibrium issues, undoubtedly. Don didn't reply. He'd almost said something about the Macedo look-alike, just to wipe the smirk off Charlie's face, but thought better of it. No sense ruining Charlie's dinner, especially if the man was harmless. He reflected on the fact that this was the second time in a couple of weeks that his normally sober brother was a bit inebriated. Maybe the stress was getting to him.

Charlie came out and made a little unsteadily for the sink. "I'm ssseriousss. Have ssome wine when you get back to the table."

Don grinned at him, chewing his gum. A tipsy Charlie was actually funnier when you were sober yourself. "The way you've been hitting it, I doubt there's any left."

"Dad had ssome too," Charlie protested, but he grinned back as he reached for a towel. "Hey, look at me. I'm not ssstressed."

Don snorted, still grinning, and gave Charlie's shoulders a quick squeeze as Charlie meandered toward the door. "That's for sure." Charlie pushed the door open, but Don held him back and slipped out in front of him, checking the hallway, and Charlie trotted after him.

They made their chairs without incident, and Don's eyes traveled toward the man at the other table. Still there, still watching Charlie. If it weren't for the man's incessant stare, Don would probably have forgotten about him by now. Charlie didn't even notice; he was sitting with his profile to the man, and hadn't glanced his way once. The food came, and Don relaxed just a bit. Surely if the guy was going to make a move, he would have done it by now. He took a forkful of veal and mushrooms, and grunted softly in appreciation. His dad was right, the food was good here. He grinned to himself as he watched Charlie take a big bite of pasta and squid.

"Hey, thiss iss pretty good," said Charlie, looking at his plate with a bemused expression. "What did I order?"

Alan exchanged an amused look with Don. "I can't say, son. You can ask the waiter later."

Charlie shrugged and plowed into his dinner, and Alan sighed with satisfaction. Yes, it was a nice night out – they'd all needed it. It made the events of the last few days fade, to appear more benign. Even Don seemed to be more relaxed. Or at least he thought he was. Alan's smile faded as he saw Don's eyes narrow, focused on something across the room.

Don tensed, as the man he'd been watching rose from his seat. Granted, he could just be headed for the restroom, but damn it, the guy's eyes were still on Charlie. Don got his legs under him, his weight on his feet, just in case, as the man drew closer. Closer, closer…Right at the table, the man suddenly veered from the aisle, closing in on Charlie. Adrenaline and instinct merged as Don shot to his feet, swung around Charlie and tackled the man to the floor in a chokehold, taking out the waiter in the process. Patrons screamed, pasta went airborne, and the waiter and his tray came down with a clatter. Don jerked the stunned man to his feet, pulling his arms up.

"Hands on your head!" he barked, and began patting the man down.

"Don, back off!" he heard Charlie exclaim angrily, and he looked up to see his brother glaring at him furiously, strands of spaghetti swinging from his curls.

Charlie rose with all the dignity he could muster, and pulled at a particularly annoying strand of pasta which had come to rest on his nose, as Don froze, gaping at him. "Don, meet Professor Agnardo, from MIT. Professor Agnardo, my brother, Don."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Secret Agent Man narrowly avoided becoming Misdemeanor Man by maxing out one of his credit cards and buying dinner for everyone in the restaurant. It wasn't until months later that he understood just how close he had come to some serious consequences. While Agnardo was stuttering out his story to Don and Charlie in one corner ("I read about your terrible ordeal in the newspapers, Dr. Eppes, and I just wasn't sure if I should approach!"), Alan was in another slipping the affronted waiter a 100-dollar-bill for his dry-cleaning bill, and somehow miraculously soothing the man's understandably ruffled feathers. When he had accomplished that rather spectacular feat, he materialized in their corner and thoroughly endeared himself to Agnardo. By the time Don had settled his bill and Alan herded them all out the door, the MIT professor had promised to come to Pasadena for dinner the next night, and had agreed to let Alan take him straight from the house to the airport to catch the red-eye. "I'll invite Dr. Fleinhardt as well," the patriarch Eppes had promised as he handed Agnardo one of his business cards. "You three can have one of those completely over-my-head discussions Charlie and Larry are so fond of! My cell's on the back, and my home address. Just give the card to the taxi driver! Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night!"

Charlie had been sobered into a stony silence that lasted most of the drive back to the Craftsman. Don was again glancing uneasily in the rear view mirror, but this time he was trying to determine just how angry his brother was. Five miles from the house, Don couldn't stand the silence anymore. Although he had said it many times at the restaurant, he tried again. "I'm sorry, Buddy."

Charlie met his eyes in the mirror, but it was Alan who responded verbally. "Don. Do you still have vacation time left?"

Don took his eyes off the rear view mirror and glanced to his right. "What? Yeah, I guess. When I went to Colombia, it was PTO; and after…Maine, sick leave."

Alan continued, firmly. "Charlie, I know you're going back to teaching a full load when the fall semester begins – but that's still almost two months away."

"I don't need a vacation, if that's what you're getting at," started Don.

"Me neither," joined Charlie sullenly. "Other than my summer classes, I haven't really worked in months."

"Well, _I_ do," retorted Alan emphatically. "And neither one of you has a chance in hell of convincing me that you don't. Boys, when's the last time we took a vacation together? A pleasure trip. My God, I'd love to go somewhere _with_ the two of you again, on purpose, instead of having to come _after_ you."

Charlie winced, and turned his head to stare out the window. Don caught the movement in the mirror and sighed. "Dad…."

Alan had noticed Charlie's reaction as well, but he stood his ground. "Don't get all sulky on me, son. I'll always come after you. Always. Both of you, and neither of you has to ask." His tone became wheedling. "Come on, we all need some time to get away and relax; reconnect. We'll all come back refreshed." He smiled as a thought occurred to him. "What about that place in Maine, Charlie? You both said that it's beautiful, and I'd like to meet this Minerva."

Charlie's head whipped around and his eyes darted nervously to the mirror, seeking Don's help. "This…This is high season, Dad, she's probably booked solid."

Don shot another quick glance to the right. "Charlie's right."

Alan looked crestfallen. "Oh. Oh. I'd thought you might call and ask, at least, but I understand. Really, I can see why you wouldn't want to return there; but you both speak of it – and of Minerva – in such glowing terms." His voice dropped an octave, and they could barely hear him. "I just wanted to thank her in person, and see…" He cleared his throat, speaking up at the end. "Perhaps there's somewhere the two of you would like to go together. I don't have to tag along. I just thought it would be nice."

Don rolled his eyes back up to the mirror, and again met Charlie's there. He could see that Alan's show of dejection was playing Charlie as much as it was him. He shrugged his shoulders, and heard Charlie give a tiny sigh before he closed his eyes and leaned his head on the side window. "No, Dad, you're right. The three of us – it would be nice, and you'd love Pelican Point. I'll give Minerva a call tomorrow and see if she has any vacancies sometime in the next couple of months."

Alan brightened and half-turned in his seat to smile at Charlie. "Oh, good! Good, son." He straightened back around and smiled at Don. "Something tells me I'm really going to get a kick out of her."

Don clutched the wheel tighter and shivered.

That's what he was afraid of.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Pedro Mendoza smiled benignly at the Priest. "It humbles me that you could meet with me so soon."

The Priest smiled back. "My son, it is I who am humbled. I'm afraid that not many of our parishioners share your enthusiasm for the prison visitation ministry. To be honest, I don't recall the last time someone came to me and asked to become involved; let alone someone brand new to the area." Father Aaron chuckled a little. "Usually, I have to 'guilt in' new recruits with a rousing sermon from Matthew 25."

Mendoza clasped his hands before him in an attitude slightly reminiscent of prayer and tilted his head 15 degrees to the left. "It is verse 36, is it not, in which our Lord tells us, 'I was in prison, and you came to Me'? I should think your parishioners would attend to such pursuits with enthusiasm."

The Priest was at once impressed with his visitor's knowledge of the Bible, and slightly ashamed of maligning his own congregation before a stranger. "Please do not misunderstand," he backpedaled. "Many support our prison ministry in other ways; through prayer, financial donations. Those things are also important. It's just that I covet more…bodily participation. There are so many men at Leavenworth who have no families, no visitors, no connection with the outside at all. They are ripe for the harvest!"

His visitor nodded somberly. "Yet our Lord warned of this in Matthew as well, Father. Chapter 9, verse 37: 'The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few'. This is why I come to you even before I settle in my new home. I feel a…_burden_…to be one of those workers, for one of those souls who has no-one else."

The Father's eyes misted over and he quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest. "You shall be rewarded, my son."

Hector Macedo smiled benevolently.

He certainly intended to be.

End, Chapter 12


	13. Deceptively Simple

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 13: Deceptively Simple**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

He subjected himself to the offensive procedures required before he could gain admittance to the facility, and experienced the level of distaste that a man of his position should. His performance was acceptable; he smiled at the correct moments, and spoke politely to the correct people. No-one suspected what was truly in his heart. In truth, he was disgusted that his life had come to this. He was incensed that he found himself in the position of starting over. Worse yet, he greatly detested being forced to call upon this arrogant American for help in achieving first, his vengeance; and later, setting up his new business. He felt no respect for this man, and he felt fondness for no man. He raised his chin slightly in a stance of power as he filed into the room with all of the others. He would use him, as he had used many others, to get what was rightfully his. Then, he would feel no compunction as he threw him away.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Marshall Penfield shuffled into the visitor's area with the other prisoners, looking anxiously around the room. Ordinarily, an inmate's visitors had to have an established relationship with that prisoner prior to incarceration; but, he had agreed to accept visits from religious volunteers. He had discovered that this was a way both to relieve the tedious monotony of the days, and connect with the outside – and to get away from Richard, his amorous cellmate, for a while. The attempts to save his soul were worth the price he paid for them, and he wished he got the opportunity more often. Unless a prisoner was requested by name, however, he was placed on a rotating list, and just had to wait his turn.

Prisoners scattered as soon as they hit the entryway, hurrying to wives and girlfriends, eager to exchange one of the two embraces and chaste kisses the visit would allow. Marshall stood hesitantly, wondering who had requested his presence. He knew it was too soon for his name to have come up on the rotation, again. The prisoner in front of him spotted his wife and called out softly. As he walked rapidly in her direction, Marshall saw an olive-complected middle-aged man carrying a small book approaching. Penfield squared his shoulders in the orange jumpsuit and scowled at the book; it was no doubt another Bible. He'd given five to the prison library already.

When the stranger arrived, he smiled pleasantly and extended his hand. "The Duty Officer tells me you are Marshall Penfield?" He was nearly as tall as Marshall, and spoke smoothly, with an oddly familiar, refined, and yet indefinable accent. He made Marshall uneasy.

He ignored the proffered hand and his scowl deepened. "Yeah. You asked for me?"

The stranger arched an eyebrow as he dropped his hand to his side, but the smile stayed on his face. "I truly wish to serve, Mr. Penfield. My name is Pedro Mendoza. Please come and sit with me. I have some change for the vending machines. Perhaps you would care for some coffee, or a soda?"

Marshall glanced longingly at the line in front of the Coke machine. "Yeah. Okay. Just don't preach at me. I'll warn you now; I'm not in the market for what you're selling."

The visitor nodded. "We shall see, Mr. Penfield. Perhaps you will be surprised by my product."

The uneasy zing of familiarity hit Marshall again, and he glanced away from the man warily. Had they met before? He couldn't place his face, didn't recall that he had ever come to visit before, but there was something about that voice; and the way he carried his body….

The two men exchanged few more words while they waited in line. Eventually they reached the vending machine, and Mendoza purchased a Coke for Marshall; and a bottle of water for himself. Then he led the way to two chairs that sat facing each other near the visitors' entry to the room. "Please, have a seat," he invited again.

"Just a minute," Marshall said, as he approached a nearby guard. He silently handed the uniformed man his Coke. The guard reached out and took it, popped the top and pulled off the tab, which he shoved in his pocket as he handed the Coke back. Marshall nodded; then crossed the few feet back to the chairs, where Mendoza was looking at him quizzically. Marshall shrugged, sitting in one of the chairs. "Could use it as a weapon, I guess," he explained. He tipped the can and began to swallow. The carbonation burned down his throat and he closed his eyes in pleasure. These religious people hardly ever treated him to a drink, and it had been weeks since he'd tasted anything like this. All the money he earned in the laundry he spent on paper and pencils and computer time in the library. He had drained half the can before he lowered it an opened his eyes again, starting at the benevolent grin on the visitor before him.

"I have more change," Mendoza offered dryly. "We can get another."

Marshall frowned, unaccountably embarrassed. He took another sip, this one more contained, and left his eyes open to study the man before him. His own bottle of water sat on the floor untouched. At length, he lowered the can. "Why'd you pick me?"

Mendoza smiled. "Our Apostle Paul wrote of his own time in prison. When Father Aaron showed me the list, it just seemed natural to find a name that started with 'P'."

Marshall narrowed his eyes, quickly drained the can and bent slightly to set it on the floor. The he straightened and sneered at Mendoza. "No-one on the list named 'Paul', huh?"

The head tilted, and Marshall's bell of recognition went off again. "I'll admit it, Mr. Penfield. I recognized your name. You are quite a gifted mathematician."

Marshall snorted. "Now I _know_ you're crazy. Nobody ever paid any attention to me, not after…." He clamped his lips shut, and looked away.

His visitor let a moment pass, then spoke again. "I was aware of your work, sir. I dabbled in the study of mathematics myself, when I attended university in my homeland." He laughed, suddenly. "I confess, it was the deceptively simple 'Fibonacci Series' that convinced me to change my course of study. For some reason, I could never remember anything past the first nine numbers."

Marshall's head snapped back around and he regarded Mendoza before speaking disdainfully and dismissively. "Fibonacci is not a matter a memorization; it's a simple act of addition."

Still, Mendoza smiled. "Yes, I am sure you are correct. I just did not understand how something so simple could also be the basis of so many great things. In the end, I studied business. I was much more successful at that."

"Hmpfh." Marshall looked around, growing bored. "So. You said 'homeland'. Where are you from?"

"I have spent much time in America," answered Mendoza, leaning forward a little. "Originally, I come from South America. I still own property in Colombia."

Marshall was barely listening, focusing on the Coke machine and waiting for a chance to ask for another can, by the time Mendoza uttered the last word. As he did, it all fell into place. The twinges of familiarity as he listened to the voice, and watched the refined movements. He swallowed thickly, and slowly pivoted his head back around, eyes wide and frightened. "Oh, my God," he whispered, pushing back his chair and jumping roughly to his feet. "You're M…."

Mendoza was on his feet also, his voice loud in the room of quiet conversations. "MY SON! MY SON! GLORY TO GOD, YES, YES, CALL UPON HIS NAME!"

The guard who had opened Marshall's Coke for him quickly strode to Penfield's side. "Hey! What's the problem over here?"

Marshall opened his mouth to speak, but Mendoza beat him to it. "I apologize, Officer. I grew excited, when my Brother saw the light. Glory to God! Glory!"

The officer frowned. "Yeah, well, you two have to keep it down, or this prisoner won't be seein' any light in the foreseeable future. You want solitary, Penfield?"

Again Mendoza spoke. "Brother, come sit with me again, and we'll pray quietly together. God will reward you."

Marshall was just beginning to breathe normally, again, having been on the verge of hyperventilating, but he caught Mendoza's implication. His eyes narrowed again, and he steeled himself; then looked directly into the eyes of Hector Macedo. "How much will God give me?"

Mendoza smiled, serenely and beatifically. "Ah, my Brother, your needs will all be met. You shall live in a great mansion, and walk upon streets of gold."

The guard was rolling his eyes as Marshall moved again toward his chair. "Sorry, Boss," he muttered, never taking his eyes off Macedo. "We'll keep it down from now on."

"See that you do," snorted the guard, shaking his head and wandering back toward his post. Never ceased to amaze him, how many prisoners suddenly saw the light.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don went back to work the next day, expecting to be summoned to Merrick's office at any minute, terrified that someone at the restaurant had decided to file a complaint. When he wasn't worrying about that possibility, he was worrying about Charlie, who was floating through the day without any form of protection, no doubt tempting all forms of evil. His brother intended to put a few hours in at CalSci before catching a ride home with Larry for the dinner with Agnardo, and Don was not happy about it. Nor, unfortunately, was he in a position to do anything about it. Everybody thought he was over-reacting. His team, his brother, even his father. By the time he got to Charlie's after work, he was a nervous wreck – and he had to spend the next several hours making nice to the man whose neck he tried to break the night before.

Don parked the SUV in the driveway, climbed out, trudged up the walk and slunk through the kitchen door like a man to the gallows. Alan had his back to him, working with something on the counter near the stove, and Charlie was standing at an open refrigerator, looking back at him over his shoulder. The weary agent opened the junk drawer near the door, dropped his badge inside and began to shrug off his shoulder holster. "Is he here, yet?"

Alan turned to face his eldest, wiping his hands on a towel. "Donny!" he cried. "You're just in time. I was just about to take the steaks out to the barbecue. It's such a nice evening; we thought we'd eat outside." He turned and picked up a platter of meat off the counter. Turning again, he started across the kitchen and winked conspiratorially at his son as he passed him to exit the door Don had just come in. "Come on out when you're ready!"

Charlie set two beers on the counter, gripping a third with one hand while he shut the refrigerator door with the other. "Here," he said, moving across the kitchen toward Don. "I was going to drink this, but you look like you need it worse. Professor Agnardo's out looking at the koi and talking to Larry."

Don accepted the cold beer gratefully, and tipped it immediately into his mouth. After a long pull, he lowered the bottle and smiled at Charlie. "Thanks, Buddy."

Charlie grinned back. "Dad's right," he observed. "You need a vacation. You look terrible."

Don grimaced. "Oh, yeah – Dad and Minerva together, that should relax me."

Charlie laughed. "Come on, she's a nice woman! Besides, you've got a month to get used to the idea. I called her earlier, and I was right; she's fully booked. She was ecstatic at the prospect of a visit, though, and she insisted that we come out anyway and stay with her in the main house. I figured a month would give you some time to arrange things at work, and I can get most of my syllabi and lesson plans done before we go. Plus, Dad's already told Stan he'll take a consulting job that could last a couple of weeks."

Don shoved shut the drawer with his hip and leaned back against it, taking another draw from his beer while Charlie spoke. Much as he hated to admit it, the whole idea of an actual vacation was starting to appeal to him. He had a reputation to uphold, however, so he wasn't about to admit that; not yet, anyway. "Sure," he teased, when Charlie finally wound down. "You just don't want Dad dating your boss."

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Be honest, Don. If Merrick was a woman, would you be comfortable if your father was dating him? Her?" Don shuddered, and Charlie reached for the other two beers on the counter. "Anyway, he just wants to meet her. It's not like they're getting married. Let's go out before these get any warmer."

Don looked at the beer he held, which was already close to empty, and thought of Professor Agnardo waiting for him outside. He started for the refrigerator. "Right behind you, Buddy," he said. "I'm just gonna grab a couple more."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Macedo leaned forward in his chair, the tiny Bible open on his lap, and spoke quietly. "I will continue to visit, and try to find a way…"

Penfield interrupted him, excited, but practically whispering. "I made another deal. They're idiots, I didn't give them anything, but they're going to take me out every Tuesday for outpatient treatment. One guard."

Macedo smiled, and leaned a little closer. "That is good," he murmured. "I will follow." He sensed the nearest guard looking at them again and raised his voice a little. "Yes, Brother, yes! Follow Him, and confess it _all_ to the Lord!"

Marshall looked startled for a moment, but then he too noticed the guard's attention and played along, closing his eyes and rocking a little in his chair. "Sweet Jesus!" he cried, and the guard smirked and turned away, moving to break up a couple trying to sneak in a little extra lovin'.

With the guard's attention successfully diverted, Macedo leaned forward again and resumed whispering. "I will follow," he repeated, thinking quickly. "Twice. Learn what I can. On the third Tuesday, be prepared." Marshall smiled widely, and the guard began a slow rotation back in their direction. Macedo fumbled with the book in his lap, closing it and offering it to Marshall. "Praise the Lord, my Brother. The Duty Officer has said that I may leave this with you," he said in a normal voice. As he leaned to hand off the New Testament, he whispered. "Time?"

Marshall accepted the book and whispered in return. "11," he murmured, and then sat back, his attention drawn to the Bible.

Macedo stood and reached in his pocket for more change. "I took the liberty of writing some favorite Scripture references on the flyleaf," he said. "They will help in your new walk with God. Another cola, yes?"

Marshall looked up, clutching the tiny Bible tightly, "Oh, yes," he agreed.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 78 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Gripping his new Bible in one hand, and the third Coke Macedo had bought him in the other, Marshall couldn't wait to get back to his cell. Richard would no doubt be jealous, and want some…attention. Marshall had a plan for that. That's why he had saved the third Cola, taking only one small sip after a guard removed the tab for him. He was sure the Bible from Macedo contained some sort of message, and his fingers fairly itched to scribble out the code on his precious supply of paper. He would distract Richard with gifts; the Coke, and a pack of cigarettes he had been saving under the mattress. While the oaf sat on his bunk and enjoyed himself, Marshall would sit on his and figure this out. He hoped to have enough time, before they were taken to dinner.

The plan worked flawlessly. Richard's jealousy was easily tempered by the gifts, and Marshall sat cross-legged on his bed, and opened the Bible. First, he simply read the nine Scriptures that Macedo had written on the flyleaf. That took a few minutes, since they were in nine different books, and he had to keep checking the index to discover to what page each notation referred. As he progressed through the Scripture, however, he shook his head in confusion and frowned. If there was some sort of message here, he certainly could not figure it out. For over half an hour, Marshall applied a code-breaking algorithm he had learned at Quantico last year to Titus 3:2, but the results he got were nothing but gibberish. He scratched his head and looked at the list on the flyleaf again. Dinner was fast approaching, and his sense of euphoria had long ago fled.

"What's wrong, baby?" Richard asked sleepily from his bunk.

Marshall glared at him. "Shut-up, you simple fool," he started, and then he abruptly closed his own mouth and looked back at the Bible. He remembered his early conversation with Macedo, when Marshall had still thought he was Pedro Mendoza. _'Deceptively simple,'_ the man had said; and, he had talked at length about the Fibonacci Series. He had said he could only remember the first nine numbers of the sequence – and he had listed nine Scripture verses. Excited again, Marshall turned quickly back to the first verse on the list and turned over his sheet of paper. The first nine numbers of the Fibonacci Series were 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21 and 36. Hands shaking so much that he almost dropped his stub of a pencil several times, Marshall started at the beginning.

Ephesians 4:3 – the first word was "Every". Acts 15:35 – the first word was "Paul". John 13:9, and the second word was "Peter". Titus 3:2; Marshall scribbled "Evil", the third word in the verse. Luke 1:71 – the fifth word was "Saved". Romans 6:9 showed him that word eight was "Dead". Penfield knew by this time that the sentence he was creating with these words made no sense, and his frustration level was growing, but he finished anyway. In Matthew 25:36, he found the thirteenth word to be "I"; Mark 10:15, and the twenty-first word was "enter". Finally, Marshall added word 36 from Revelation 1:5, "Sins", and dejectedly read over his new sentence to see if he could twist any sense out of it. "_Endeavoring Paul Peter Evil Saved Dead I Enter Sins,_" he mumbled. What the hell was that? It wasn't even a sentence, just a list of words.

Richard took a drag off his cigarette and blew a smoke ring in his direction. "What'd you say, honey?"

Marshall tried to look at his cellmate but was distracted by the smoke coming at him. He coughed and waved his pencil in the air to disperse the smoke. "I said, _'Shut-up'_," he hissed, looking back at the paper.

Holy shit.

He looked at the sentence again; then quietly used the remainder of the paper to list every word vertically. When he was finished, he stared at the paper and smiled. The deceptively simple code wasn't just the appropriately numbered word of each reference; it was the first letter of that word. Carefully, Marshall underlined the first letter of each word.

**E**very

**P**aul

**P**eter

**E**vil

**S**aved

**D**ead

**I**

**E**nter

**S**ins

He started giggling. First Macedo had promised him money, and now he was promising that Eppes would die, and that he, Marshall, would get to help with that. He giggled madly the entire time it took to rip the paper into tiny shreds. And then he ruined his dinner by eating them.

As he swallowed the last bit of paper, he burped. Marshall Penfield was a happy, happy man.

End, Chapter 13


	14. The Best Laid Plans, Part I

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 14: The Best Laid Plans**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Alan's consulting gig for Stan took him to San Diego for a few days. Even though Charlie was back to his normal schedule, on campus for several hours a day, it still bothered Don to think of him alone at the Craftsman every night. He knew how his 32-year-old brother would react to any plan that included Don acting as official "babysitter"; so, the FBI agent didn't broach the subject. He just made it a point to go to Charlie's every evening for dinner and accidentally fall asleep on the couch watching television.

Their father would be in San Diego for at least five days. On the third evening Don started to nod off on the couch, Charlie got concerned. "Don, are you sure you're all right? You haven't been injured on the job and not told us, or something?"

Don really had been falling asleep, and now he jerked awake as Charlie tried to cover him with a blanket. "Wha?" He batted the blanket aside. "Charlie, what're you doin? It's June in L.A., dude!"

Charlie picked the blanket up off the floor and stood uncertainly in front of the couch, bunching it up in his hands. "Maybe I shouldn't have put the vacation off so long. You've been looking so tired, and you keep falling asleep over here, and…." Don saw Charlie's eyes narrow before he turned away and wandered over to their Dad's recliner. He folded the blanket neatly, tossed it on the end table his father used to keep his books next to the chair, and sat down. When he lifted his face to Don's again, it was completely composed; almost impassive. "Interesting part is, you always seemed to be alert enough to make it home until Dad left."

Don shifted on the couch, and knew he had been busted. He tried to turn it back around, and played on Charlie's guilt complex. "You're talking crazy, Charlie. You know I've been going in early, trying to get some of the paperwork under control before we leave; I guess it's taking its toll. But if you want me to drive all the way across town in the middle of the night when I'm this tired…just because you're too selfish to offer me a bed…just say so. Don't beat around the bush."

Charlie's eyes narrowed further. "Then it would make more sense for you not to come for dinner at all, wouldn't it? Not only is Dad not here – and you generally make it by only once or twice a week, even when he is – you're busy at the office."

Don arched an eyebrow and considered his next move. He couldn't believe his luck when he was saved by the ring tone. Both brothers looked around for their cells; Don's was practically vibrating off the coffee table in front of the couch, and he snatched it up triumphantly. "I win," he winked at Charlie as he flipped it open and brought it to his ear. "Eppes."

There was a pause, and then the loveliest sound he had heard in days; hot, and sweet at the same time, like warm fudge melting into a dish of vanilla ice cream. "Don? It's Ana. How are you?"

He smiled, and relaxed back onto the couch. "Ana. Wow. I'm…good, I'm great. How are you?"

He could hear the answering smile in her voice. "I also am well, Agent. Has your brother recovered well from his injuries?"

Don's eyes followed Charlie, who had risen from the chair and was walking toward the kitchen, probably to give him some privacy. "Yeah," he sighed. "He's good. Back at work. There haven't been any more…incidents, so maybe everybody was right. Maybe it wasn't Macedo."

She paused, and he heard her breathing into the phone. When she finally spoke again, it was with quiet conviction. "That would be a happy accident. I remain convinced that he is alive."

Don hung his head, and closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah. Me, too." He lifted his head, and ran his free hand through his hair. "So where are you?" he asked, changing the subject.

"In Rio," she answered. "I have decided to sell the practice, and I have contacted some people in the L.A. area to let them know I am available. I will be there soon for some interviews. I want to return to Colombia first, to visit my mother's grave. I need to put some things to rest."

Don's heart leapt, and he smiled again. The kitchen door swung open and he saw Charlie come through with a beer, but he stopped in the dining room, where he had left his laptop on the table. "That's great. All of it, I mean. I think it's a good idea for you to make your peace with Marlita. Are you thinking of joining an existing practice out here?"

She yawned into the phone. "Forgive me; it is not that you bore me, Don." She giggled. "I have been working very long hours to tie everything up. I will see the Chief of Surgery at UCLA Medical Center, as well as two private concerns. I will also consider opening my own, perhaps."

He nodded. "That all sounds good. Of course, opening your own practice will be a lot of work. I was hoping you'd have some…free time."

She laughed. "I'm sure I'll be able to work something out, Senor."

Don titled his head back on the couch. "Countin' on that. When will you get here?"

"Three weeks," she answered, and he groaned in response. "What is wrong?" she asked, concerned.

Don lifted his head off the couch and sighed. "Nothing. Nothing. It's just that I'll be gone, then. My Dad and Charlie and me – we're all going on a three-week vacation to Maine."

"Oh," she said, sounding disappointed. She hurried on, trying to inject a positive note back into the conversation. "But…that sounds lovely; and you will be back. I can use the time to truly settle into my new home, and practice."

"Yeah," Don agreed, a little dispiritedly. "Listen, what are the names of the practices you're going to look into? I can check them out first, if you want. Charlie can help. That guy can Google anything."

She laughed. "What is it you Americans say? 'TMI'?"

He blushed in the darkness and laughed back. "I just meant he's a whiz at finding things out with the computer."

"Ah. I'm sorry; I left the names at the office. I am at home, now."

An eyebrow arched, and a voice lowered. "Really? What are you wearing?" Charlie sputtered in the dining room and Don suddenly remembered he wasn't alone. "Wait," he practically yelled. "We'd better not go there right now. Listen, why don't you call me tomorrow and give me the names?"

Her voice became at once teasing, and demure. "I was going to say 'the FBI t-shirt that you gave me when I was there', but pretend you didn't hear that. You want me to call you again?"

Don chuckled into the phone. "Every day, lady. Every day."

She sighed a little wistfully into the phone. "I would enjoy that. Yet I wonder what we are doing."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"We act like children. I am still embarrassed by my behavior when I was there. I think we are both too old for this, but at the same time I pray that we are not."

Don waited a moment before answering. "So maybe it's good," he finally said. "We'll get to know each other on the phone." He grinned. "It's kind-of cute, it's so old-fashioned."

The conversation continued another five minutes before they signed off, both decidedly happier, with plans to speak again the next day. Don leaned forward and dropped the cell on the table, then stretched his hands over his head. He picked up the remote and turned off the television, then wandered to the dining room, where Charlie was poring over something on the laptop. "Hey. I'm not admitting to anything, here, but do I really have to drive all the way across town?" He yawned expansively. "I'm so tired."

Charlie looked up, a smirk on his face, and closed the laptop. "I'll bet. _'What are you wearing?'_ Geez, Don!"

Don reddened. "Haven't you learned yet not to listen to other people's private conversations?" he huffed.

He had half-turned to leave when Charlie's quiet voice stopped him. "You should invite her. To Maine."

Don turned back around and saw that all traces of teasing had left his brother's face. He actually looked serious – and a little sad. Don sat at the table opposite him. "What? No, it's okay. She'll be using the time to settle into a new practice, a new apartment. Besides, this is for the three of us, right? You, me, and Dad."

Charlie regarded him earnestly. "At least think about having her join us the last week," he suggested at length. "That way, we can have our family time, too."

Don tilted his head, slightly confused. "Why is this so important to you?" He was dismayed to see Charlie's eyes grow luminous with unshed tears.

Charlie blinked rapidly a few times to keep them at bay before he answered. "Because none of us knows how much time we have with someone," he said quietly. "Look at Dad – living out his retirement years without his wife by his side. Look at me – living without Amita. Look at yourself – almost 40 and still alone. Don't take this for granted, Don."

Don swallowed, and looked at the table. "I'll think about it," he promised huskily. "I want to talk to Dad, first. That's only fair."

Charlie smiled wanly and stood. "All-right. Just don't waste a lot of time waiting for things to be fair." He paused at the bottom of the stairs and glanced over his shoulder. "Turn the lights out before you come up to bed, okay?"

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Dr. Lydia Campbell stepped out on the porch and drew in a deep breath of fresh, country air. She jiggled the baby on her hip and sighed. She loved her sister Maizey's farm. She and Gabriella had been staying here for close to a month, "caretaking" the property while Maizey traveled the country on a book tour, and she was thinking about making it permanent. Maizey had said they were more than welcome; they all got along great, when Maizey was home. She was gone often enough that having someone staying on the farm to look after her pets in her absence was a great relief to her. Plus, it didn't look like Lydia and Bill were going to reconcile, and the house in town meant much more to him than it did to her. She could understand that; he had built it with his own two hands, after all. If she let him have it in the settlement, she had to live somewhere. Staying out here on the farm made the trip to work a little further, but it really wasn't that big a deal. Sure, Kerrville, Missouri was technically in another state, but it was pretty much a straight shot west on 72. Well...a winding shot west, maybe. The distance couldn't be more than 25 or 30 miles, a 45-minute drive, and Lydia knew she could get used to it. She was even considering moving her practice. The only reason she had moved to Leavenworth in the first place was to work at the prison. After six months, she had known it was not for her. Bill loved the area, though, so she had simply resigned and opened a private practice in town.

As one of the barn cats passed the porch on his morning hunt, Gabriella pointed excitedly, kicked her legs and cried, struggling to get down. Lydia shifted the diaper bag on her shoulder and tickled her daughter's nose as she descended from the porch and headed for the car. "No, you don't, little Missy! Mommy's not cleaning you up again, no she's NOT!" Gabriella giggled throughout the assault. With her last word, Lydia pulled open the back door of the Dodge Caravan and started to wrestle the two-year-old into her car seat.

Lydia eventually won the battle, as she always did; and Gabriella sulked, as she always did. Reaching around her daughter to secure the seatbelt, Lydia heard Gabriella sniff mightily, and felt her tiny fists in her hair. "Mommy play," the tiny redhead demanded.

Lydia leaned into the little girl and showered her with kisses until another giggle escaped. "Not today, sweet Gaby," she said sorrowfully as she withdrew from the back of the van. She was in the habit of spending her lunch hours with her daughter at the daycare center, and she struggled to explain herself to a child too young to fully grasp the concept of time. "Mommy has to take a late lunch, today. Besides, this is Daddy's day, sweetheart." Gaby continued to pout and Lydia switched from confusing explanations to simple distraction, sticking out her tongue and rolling her eyes. She laughed as Gabriella tried to mimic the face, then walked around the van to the driver's seat, feeling the familiar twist in her heart. She hated this part. Taking the child to daycare every morning was always hard. Most days, the experience was tempered for Lydia by the promise of a lunch hour spent together. Now, thanks to her stupid tie with the prison, she'd had to make special arrangements with Bill, asking him to watch Gaby on Tuesdays. The little girl needed to spend time with both of her parents, and it had been easy for her landscaper husband to rearrange his day off. Still, it rankled to find herself beholding to him right now. She sighed and yanked open the door, wondering again how Marshall Penfield had managed to secure outpatient treatment. The prison had its own mental health unit. Of course, outpatient treatment was not unheard of. Sometimes a doctor at the prison made a referral, and because she had some familiarity with the prison, those referrals often came to her. If it was a doctor referral, though, it was odd that she had not received the paperwork, yet. She had gone out to the prison for a brief introductory meeting, and had left with an unsettling feeling that something unusual was going on. She slid into the driver's seat, automatically checking on Gaby through the rear view mirror. The little girl was starting to cry again, and Lydia felt like joining her. Now she would miss every Tuesday lunch with Gaby for the foreseeable future, while she conducted psychiatric sessions with the odd, skinny prisoner and his condescending attitude.

Sometimes, this job sucked.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Macedo sipped coffee in the parking lot of a convenience store in Leavenworth, and watched the road. When the prison transport van rumbled by, he smiled, placed the drink in the molded plastic cup holder, and smoothly pulled the rented sedan into traffic. When the van pulled slowly into St. John's Medical Plaza and negotiated into a parking spot, he followed, making it a point to park far away from the van. While Marshall was led, handcuffed and shackled, across the lot, Macedo loitered in the Plaza foyer. He checked the directory of offices, but since he didn't really know why Marshall was coming here, he was unsure if he should pick internists on the first floor, orthopedics on the second, or psychiatrists on the third. He was still peering at the map when Marshall clunked past him, steered to the elevator. Macedo smoothly moved in on the other side of the guard.

The man placed one hand on the gun perched on his hip and tightened his grip on Marshall's arm. "Go ahead, sir," he said to Macedo as the doors opened. "We go up alone."

Macedo smiled stiffly, tilting his head as he entered the elevator. "As you wish," he responded through clenched teeth. _Now_ how was he supposed to figure out which doctor they were seeing? The elevator began to fill with others, and Macedo silently seethed. A woman squeezed in just as the doors started to close and pushed them back open, holding the lift. She glanced nervously as the others behind her. "My husband will be right here," she was explaining, when Macedo heard a different, more nasal, definitely more familiar voice.

Marshall was speaking to the guard, rather loudly. "So do you know this Campbell woman? I don't know how I feel about seeing a lady shrink."

"Shut-up," the guard responded. "_She's_ your therapist, not me. I don't want to hear another word out of you."

The woman's husband dashed through the lobby, practically knocking her over as he threw himself in the elevator. The doors began to close, and Macedo stood silently smiling in his corner.

Seems Marshall just might be a little brighter than he'd been giving him credit for.

A sense of peace filled the Colombian as he rode the elevator to the top floor of the medical building, intending to take the stairs back to the lobby. He would come back later to more thoroughly check out Campbell's office. Meanwhile, whilst Marshall and the guard were safely tucked away, he would return to the lobby. There were photographs there of each of the physicians practicing in the building. Macedo would find this Campbell, and he would linger in the background all day. He would discover where she parked, and follow her home. The next Tuesday he would know where to go so that he could watch her before work. He needed to study her habits, and find her vulnerable areas, so that he could use her during the escape.

Sometime later that week, he would return to the medical offices and look for a weak spot. He had noted with interest, as he had parked in the lot outside, that the complex had its own parking garage. If only he could think of a way to make sure the guard parked there…. Macedo smiled as he slowly strolled in the direction of the garage, to see what he could see. It had been far too long since he had done his own dirty work; he had almost forgotten how much fun it could be. Not only that, it appeared that this line of work was surprisingly like riding a bike. Once you learned how, you could go years without doing it, and hop right back on.

It was all coming back to him.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 14


	15. The Best Laid Plans, Part II

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 15: ****The Best Laid Plans, Part II**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Marshall Penfield followed the guard through the hall to the visitor's area at the prison, nearly treading on the back of the man's feet in his hurry to get there. There were other prisoners on the way there also, with a guard to bring up the rear, but Penfield was at the head of the line. It had been a week since his initial contact with Macedo, and he was itching for information.

When Penfield got through the door, he found Macedo – no, he was _Mendoza_ here, Penfield reminded himself - sitting in the corner with a Mona Lisa smile on his face. He looked so different, Penfield reflected as he approached, but the eyes were the same – cunning, sly, knowing, with a hint of humor, but completely devoid of the tiniest shred of human compassion. Cold, like a snake, in spite of the smile. Penfield shuddered a bit as he sat next to him, knowing how the mouse felt that had wandered too close to the cobra. Penfield was drawn to him, and terrified by him at the same time.

"My son," said Mendoza, raising a hand in benediction and greeting. "Here is money for your refreshment. Please, be my guest; and then return and tell me of your week."

Penfield stepped over to the machine and selected a soda, removing the tab and giving it to the guard, grasping the cold can like a treasure as he returned. He drank, using the motion as an excuse to shoot a glance behind him, then leaned forward. "I read the passages you indicated, and they were enlightening," he said. "I wish to learn more of my duty in life, and my salvation."

Mendoza beamed, the snake-like eyes glittering. "Your duty is to be a witness, my son. You will call others to the fold. Think of one person you would like to convert – you will call him to the sacrifice – he will find that in giving his life for the cause, he will find salvation, as will you."

Penfield glanced around a little nervously, and lowered his voice. "And how shall I call him?"

Mendoza smiled, and held up a Bible, much like the one he'd brought the week before. "I have brought the Old Testament this week," he murmured. "You will find guidance from the Lord in here. I have marked passages of particular interest for you. Read them well, and we will talk." He handed the Bible with reverence to Penfield, and rose, smiling. "Until next week, my son."

His sharp eyes watched closely as a guard approached, flipped through the book casually, and turned it upside-down. Satisfied, the guard handed it back, and Macedo/Mendoza smiled, catching Penfield's eye one more time, as the guard opened the door, and he slipped outside.

Penfield flipped through the book himself, looking for notations, and saw none that were obvious. Frowning a bit, he began turning page by page, and it wasn't until he was well into it that he realized Macedo had drawn tiny lines under individual scattered letters, never more than one to a page. They were nearly impossible to see unless one was looking for them, and even then were tough to find. Backtracking through the pages, he realized that he'd missed a half-dozen of them already. The rest of the half-hour of visitation flew by as he began to search them out. They were arranged in order, and by the time he was called to go back to his cell, he had found the words "Tuesday appt."

The lighting was dimmer in the cell, making it even more difficult to see the marks, and he pored over the pages, earning a scowl and a whine from Richard. "You never talk to me anymore – all you do is read that holy-roller stuff."

"Shut up," was his only response, and it didn't even come with eye contact; Penfield's nose remained buried in the Book.

After two hours of searching, he had come up with more – 'cell phone under sofa – call me.' His heart was pounding with excitement, but he wondered how on earth it would work out. It sounded as though Macedo would make sure there was a cell phone under the sofa in the room where he had his appointment. But how would he be able to call? He couldn't leave the room with the phone - the guard searched him before he got back in the prison transport van; surely Macedo realized that. Furthermore, Dr. Campbell was with him in the room the entire time. He assumed Macedo would have a number programmed into the phone, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how the opportunity to call would present itself. He had to wait until Tuesday to find out, and he groaned aloud with impatience.

Richard smirked at him from across the cell. "Now that's more like it," he gushed, and Penfield's stomach turned.

"Shut up," he growled, and snapped the book shut, lying back in his bunk and staring with barely contained anticipation at the ceiling.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don sighed with satisfaction and leaned back on the sofa. He had a good meal in his stomach and a ballgame on the tube, and was enjoying just sitting with his family in the comfortable living room. It was good to have his father back; not only had it been getting harder to convince Charlie he wasn't hovering, but Charlie just seemed to eat better and to follow more normal sleeping patterns when Alan was around to prod him. The eating part, Don suspected, occurred out of guilt; Charlie didn't seem much more interested in the food itself, but the fact that his father had gone through the trouble to prepare it made him sit down and at least try to eat. The one exception had been the night they'd gone out to the restaurant; Charlie had actually seemed to appreciate his dinner that night – at least until he'd found himself draped in spaghetti. Don assumed it had been the wine; it made his brother relax enough to enjoy the meal.

He watched him now, his legs crossed on the sofa, his laptop open in front of him, slight, studious, silent, thinner, and more serious than a year ago. It was apparent; Charlie still hadn't healed, at least not emotionally, from the events of last fall. The loss of Amita was a big part of it, but Don knew there was more to it than that; a person couldn't possibly go through what Charlie had without some residual effects. It was almost as though a piece of him was missing; he was living his life, but removed from it at the same time, as if he didn't want to commit himself to anything enjoyable. Dinner was a perfect example; he pretended to eat, pretended to enjoy the meal, but it was a show, primarily intended to appease others. Charlie approached not only dinner, but _life_ that way these days – denying himself pleasure, hell, not even quite participating, always keeping himself at arm's length. Like a turtle, retreated halfway into his shell, and ready to disappear entirely at a moment's notice – afraid to let his guard down. He was both a fortress, and supremely vulnerable, at the same time.

It made Don indescribably sad, and he found in this case, time didn't heal. The longer it went on, this limping existence of Charlie's, the angrier Don became at the people who had put him here, who had hurt him, who had taken Amita away. He'd killed more than once in the line of duty, but only one other time had he actually wanted to – in the case of Crystal Hoyle, who had kidnapped and nearly killed Megan. Don felt at the time he'd nearly crossed a line from which he couldn't return – although he had, with the support of his family, his team, and more than one session with Dr. Bradford. Or maybe he hadn't quite made it back across. He couldn't help but wonder; if given the opportunity, he would kill Penfield. God knew, he hated him enough.

His cell phone beeped, and he pulled it from his pocket, a grin coming to his face as he saw it was Ana. He stood as he answered it, and caught Charlie watching him as he said, "Hey – how are you?"

Charlie sent him a quiet smile, and Don grinned back at him as Ana's voice came over the line. "_I'm am well; and how are you?"_

Charlie watched Don's grin widen, and he smiled softly as Don meandered into the kitchen, the cell phone to his ear. Alan watched his youngest as he bent his head down over his work again, taking in the smile, the wistfulness, the pain lurking behind the softness in his youngest son's eyes. He knew exactly how Charlie felt; he still missed Margaret terribly, but it seemed unfair someone so young should have to go through such a loss – and before they'd even had a chance to have a life together. At least he and Margaret had possessed that – many wonderful years. For a while, it had seemed Charlie was actually on his way to having a relationship that worked, but it had been snatched from him, and now he seemed even further away from finding someone than he had been to begin with.

Don on the other hand, had seemed finally to connect with someone – and someone outside of work. Maybe that would be the key for him – a relationship unencumbered by the weight of their respective jobs. Someone with a career as far removed from any aspect of law enforcement as one could be – someone like Ana. "It sounds like they enjoy each other," he said, trying to make conversation, to draw Charlie out of his shell.

Charlie looked up and smiled, and there was genuine, if quiet, warmth in his expression. "Yeah, it seems they're really hitting it off." He paused for a moment. "Did he talk to you about inviting her to Pelican Point?"

Alan nodded. "Yes – I told him by all means, the more the merrier." He stopped and looked at Charlie. "Is it okay with you? I just assumed he asked you -,"

"He did," Charlie interrupted hastily. "It's absolutely okay. I'm glad to see it – you know."

Alan smiled. "Yes, I do."

Charlie sighed, and again the note of wistfulness crept into his voice. "It should be good. It's a good time for me to get away – before the fall term starts." He fell silent, and bent his head over his laptop again, and Alan sat there, the smile still pasted on his face, and a lump in his throat.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The following Tuesday, Macedo watched as the maroon Dodge Caravan left the driveway that led to the farmhouse, and put his sedan in gear. He was idling nearly a mile down the road, using field glasses to see clearly when the doctor left her house. He had been to the clinic the night before, showing up nearly at quitting time in a janitorial uniform. It was a simple matter to gain access to her office after she had gone, and tape the cell phone to the underside of the sofa. He had followed her for over a week now and knew much about her life. He knew about her estranged husband, who lived at the house in town, which was where she was headed now, with her little red-haired daughter. She dropped the girl off on Tuesdays there. He knew she lived at the farmhouse – such a convenient location, he thought to himself, so secluded. Even though the owner of record was another woman, Macedo was not worried about running into her. A helpful clerk at the county assessor's office had bragged that Maizey Somers was Kerrville's claim to fame, and was currently on a tour to promote her latest book. He had convinced the clerk that he was interested in purchasing the farm, and she had shuddered to think her tenuous link to fame could disappear so easily. "She won't sell," the clerk assured him. "Maizey's sister lives there with her now, you know." Macedo had expressed his disappointment, even asking if there was another farm she knew of that was for sale. The clerk was soon off and running, while he just stood back and offered the occasional charming smile. He smiled again now, remembering the insufferable rube. The plan was coming together, in fact, nearly finished. It was a good thing, because it would be set in motion today.

He followed her as she dropped off her daughter, watching as the husband came to the door, and then to her office. She pulled past the outside lot and parked in the parking garage, he noted. He needed the prison van to do the same, but last week the guard had parked in the lot. He had an idea though, of how to accomplish that. He parked outside in the lot himself, and stepped into a nearby coffee shop to wait. As soon as the prison van appeared, he would return to his car, and prepare to contact Penfield.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Marshall Penfield stepped up to the office door, and the guard removed his handcuffs. According to the rules, he should be wearing them at all times, but the woman shrink, Dr. Campbell, had objected. She insisted that while Penfield was in her office in a session, he should remain un-cuffed. The guard had remained unconvinced, but eventually a compromise was reached. Marshall would lose the handcuffs, so that he could freely use his hands, but he would remain shackled at the ankles; his freedom of movement would still be severely limited. Penfield grinned and licked his lips. She was apparently one of those softhearted types who swooned over civil injustice, animal rights, and the like. It worked for him. Actually, _she_ worked for him. Dr. Lydia Campbell. He rarely got the opportunity to see women, except for in the visitor's room, and she was definitely the hottest thing he'd seen in a long time.

He stepped through the door, nearly vibrating with excitement. As if seeing her wasn't enough, he knew he was moments away from a phone call with Macedo. He couldn't wait to see how the man pulled this off.

The wait wasn't long. Just moments after he was inside and they'd exchanged greetings, the secretary came to the door, her face filled with concern. "Dr. Campbell, there's a phone call for you – I know you don't like to be interrupted, but he said it was a family emergency."

Penfield watched as the doctor's face paled, and she excused herself. This was it, he realized, and as soon as she stepped out, he felt for the phone. There it was, taped to the underside of the sofa. He went into the address book, and stared for a moment in confusion at the two numbers – one listed under Mendoza, and the other under Eppes.

Outside at the secretary's desk, Lydia clutched the phone tightly as she put it to her ear, her hand trembling. "This is Dr. Campbell. May I ask who this is?"

The guard stood watching her with a frown, and placed himself solidly in front of the door. As almost an afterthought, he reached for the door handle, but Lydia waved him off. She didn't want her patient to think she didn't trust him – and there was nothing in the office he could steal anyway. The important stuff was under lock and key; and besides, the guard always checked him on the way out.

A heavily accented voice answered on the other end. "Dis iss Dr. Cavala. I am calling - you have daughter, yes?"

"Yes," said Lydia, shakily.

"We have reports of auto accident – daughter's name?"

Lydia felt her heart leap uncomfortably. "Gabriella. Campbell."

"Okay, okay, lessee here…I need to get chart. Please excuse for a moment."

Lydia started to protest, but the line clicked, and she waited in a stew of impatience, staring with frightened eyes at the secretary, who gazed back in commiseration.

Macedo sat in his car and picked up the other cell phone, which was on its third ring. "You were quick. That is good," he said with a smile.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Penfield, his heart thumping.

"We don't have much time," said Macedo. "Listen carefully. When you finish talking to me, you will make another phone call to Charles Eppes. You are to tell him you need to talk to him in person, here in Leavenworth. Tell him if he does not come, you will press a lawsuit for bodily injury against his brother, and that you have other information that will ruin the agent's reputation, and get him fired, perhaps imprisoned. Inform Dr. Eppes you want something from him, or you will proceed with the lawsuit. Tell him he is to come alone, next Tuesday, on United Flight 2322 from LAX, which lands here at 2:50 in the afternoon, and that your lawyer will pick him up at the airport. Do you have that?"

Penfield cast a nervous glance toward the door. "Yes, but what do I want from him?"

Macedo scowled. "Be creative. That part of it is your area. What would one mathematician want from another? You decide."

"Okay," said Penfield uncertainly.

"Here is the rest. When you are done talking to Eppes, put the cell phone back under the sofa. Next Tuesday, I will call you in your session. You will take the phone out and give it to the doctor. I will instruct you both from there. Now go make your call."

He hung up abruptly, and switched lines, picking up the woman again. "Okay, I am sorry for your wait. Now your daughter, she is how old….?"

Penfield stared at the phone, and thought frantically for a moment. What could he tell Eppes he wanted from him? _'Think, think,' _he told himself impatiently. The inspiration hit him, and he cackled with a mixture of nerves and glee, as he dialed the number for Eppes' cell phone.

End, Chapter 15


	16. The Bait

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 16: The Bait**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Charlie's fingers flew over his keyboard. He was at his office at CalSci, preparing a syllabus for an upcoming course in the fall. It was quiet; the campus was much less active in the summer, populated only by students taking summer classes, and the occasional graduate student or doctoral candidate working on projects. Thankfully, his own summer classes were over, and he could take his time preparing for the full complement of courses that he would start in September. The morning sun streamed through the window, and the aura in the building was peaceful, a little sleepy. The campus was starting to feel comfortable to Charlie again, like home; for a while after Amita's death, he could hardly stand to be here. Today though, it was good; the work, the quiet, the sunlight were all healing. It was so quiet, that when his cell phone rang, he jumped.

He fumbled for the cell phone, flipped it open, and put it absently to his ear as he examined the computer screen, expecting Don or his father. "Hello?" He froze at the voice that came over the line.

"_Hello, Eppsie. Guess who?"_

For a moment Charlie was speechless, and when he found his voice, it was hoarse. "Marshall?"

"_Give the man an 'A.' I need you to listen carefully, Eppsie. I have a request. I have some work I need to have published, some significant work, and I can't do it from in here. I also need a backer in the math community, someone to promote it, because as you well know, my reputation is, shall we say, a little tarnished right now. I think you're the right man for the job. If you promoted this in spite of our…history, I think the math community would sit up and listen."_

A look of disbelief crossed Charlie face. "Are you serious?"

"_Absolutely_."

Anger quickly replaced the disbelief. "I can't believe you have the gall to call me, much less ask me this. No. The answer is no."

"_You haven't heard the rest of my – proposition. I am currently preparing a bodily injury lawsuit against your brother, for the injuries I sustained at the cabin. As my lawyer was researching his past, he came across some interesting information – information that is significant enough to ruin his reputation and get him fired, and maybe even imprisoned. Of course, my lawsuit wouldn't help, and would likely wipe him out financially. The deal is this – you help me get my work published and help me promote it, and I look the other way as far as your brother is concerned_."

Charlie sat motionless, trying to process the information. What on earth could Penfield be talking about? He had a hard time believing Don had ever done anything illegal, but he also knew that his brother talked very little about his days in fugitive recovery. Charlie had the impression that type of work required some creativity, some unorthodox methods. There was a big difference between unorthodox and illegal, but Charlie knew a good lawyer could make something innocent appear illegal. Even if that part of it turned out to be a hollow threat, Penfield's lawsuit regarding the battle in the cabin was enough to concern him. He stalled for thinking time with a question. "What's the point of going after Don's money, anyway? A prisoner cannot profit from his crimes, Penfield."

Marshall winced. Shit. If only he'd had more time to work on this… _"It doesn't matter,"_ he finally responded._ "The money isn't the point; ruining him is."_ He grinned, suddenly, wickedly. _"Hell, the money can go to a charity somewhere. Don't you have some favorites of your own, Eppsie?"_ Charlie didn't answer, but Marshall heard his breath quicken. His smiled broadened as he continued. _"What I'm after for myself is the_ _fame, attached to the work. You see, I have a lot of time on my hands in here, and I put it to good use. I solved one of the Millennium Problems_."

Charlie's jaw dropped, and his heart skipped a beat. The Millennium Problems were seven math problems, long considered unsolvable. There was a prize of a million dollars for anyone who was able to find a solution to any one of them. Charlie himself had worked on one of them without success, P vs. NP. The previous year, a reclusive Russian had solved Poincare, bringing the list down to six. Now Penfield was saying he'd solved another? He really shouldn't ask, he should maintain he wasn't interested, but he couldn't help himself. "Which one?"

He could hear the gloating, amused tone in Penfield's voice. "_The Hodge conjecture_."

Charlie sat there, stunned, and he had to admit, more than a little jealous. If Penfield were correct, this would catapult him into history as one of the premier mathematicians of all time.

Penfield spoke impatiently into the silence. _"I have a meeting time set up with my lawyer for next Tuesday, and I would like you to be present. You are to come alone, and tell no one about your visit. We will lay out the facts we have against your brother, and I assure you, you will be convinced we have a case. You can make up your mind then – although I am not going to give you much time to consider. There are a handful of other mathematicians who could verify my work. I could easily select one of them, although I do admit, I love the thought of you working for me_."

Charlie set his jaw. '_And I'd love nothing more than to be the one to disprove your theory, and poke a hole in your lawsuit,_' he thought to himself, angrily. "What time next Tuesday?"

"The meeting is set up late in the afternoon. You are to take United Flight 2322 out of LAX, which arrives in Kansas City at 2:50 p.m. My lawyer will meet you at the airport and drive you to the prison."

"Fine," snapped Charlie, "I'll be there."

"_Good_," replied Penfield. "_We'll be expecting you."_

The line disconnected, and Charlie jotted down the flight information, and stared at the phone blankly, his mind whirling. He had allowed pride and anger to goad him into acceptance, but now that he'd made the commitment, he felt uneasy. The setup seemed strange, and he had to admit, the thought of even seeing Penfield again frightened him a bit, even if he was behind bars. Of course, he chided himself; the man was in prison, it wasn't as though he could possibly be a threat to him. If his allegations were true, however, he could be a threat to Don. _'I at least have to make an initial visit,'_ Charlie decided. He could always refuse once he'd had a chance to look at what they had.

He set his phone down and started back in on his lesson plans, but the work didn't go nearly as well now, he was distracted and disturbed, and the sunlight through the windows didn't seem nearly as bright. The peacefulness of the morning had vanished with a five-minute phone call.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Lydia listened breathlessly, trying to decipher Dr. Cavala's heavy accent. He was back on the phone, after a long delay. "You said something about an accident?"

"_Yes, yes_," replied Macedo, purposely deepening his accent. "_Oh, I am seeing I have here maybe some wrong information. Your last name is what_?"

"Campbell. C-A-M-P-B-E-L-L." Lydia felt ready to scream. "What hospital is this – is my husband there?"

"_Oh, oh, my, I think perhaps we have the wrong person. We have girl as patient, last name Cameron, not Campbell. Gabriella Cameron, age appears to be twelve or so. She is unconscious, you see, we relied on neighbor information. I am so sorry_."

Lydia took a huge breath of relief. This was someone else – no one could possibly mistake two-year old Gaby for twelve, although her heart went out to whomever this child belonged. She glanced at her watch - she'd just wasted over ten minutes of her patient's time, most of it on hold, waiting for the man to return to the phone. "No, it's all right. I have to go, though, I have a patient waiting."

She handed the receiver to the secretary, shaking her head. "Okay, that was – interesting. False alarm."

The secretary hung up the phone with a deep breath and a smile. "That's a relief."

'You're telling me,' thought Lydia, as the guard stepped aside and she re-entered her office. "I'm sorry for the delay," she said. "It was a misunderstanding."

Her patient, lounging on the sofa, beamed at her, and she thought, not for the first time, that he resembled a rat when he smiled. "Not a problem," he said, magnanimously. "No problem at all."

Out in the car, Macedo's eyes glinted with satisfaction. Penfield had called on the other phone while he was talking with Dr. Campbell and left a quick message that he'd made the call, and Eppes had agreed to come. Things were coming together; his plan was starting to gain definition. Now he had one more call to make - he needed to get a parking lot repaved.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Bob Tompkins stepped into his office suite, and his secretary held up her hand. "He just stepped in. Just a moment please." She hit mute. "It's Elliot Stevens. Can you take the call?"

Tompkins headed for his office, with a nod. "Yes, send him through."

He strode around his desk and picked up the phone as it started to ring. "Yeah, Elliot. Tell me you've got some news."

Elliot sighed on the other end. "Bobby. None, I'm afraid. The DNA results were conclusive – Macedo didn't go down in that plane crash, but he might as well have. It seems he vanished into thin air."

"What about the lead that Dr. Eppes found – the owner of the offshore account?"

"We've got men on that one, but he's nowhere to be found. We suspect he's left the country, although there is an apartment in Rio that has the rent paid for the next several months. Apparently, wherever he is, whoever he is, he's planning on coming back. We'll be waiting for him when he does.

Tompkins grunted; a soft disappointed sound of acknowledgement.

Stevens continued. "Actually, it's Eppes who I need to talk to you about. We've had him under surveillance per your instructions since his accident, but haven't seen a sign of anyone else watching him. The FBI listed the hit-and-run as gang-related, and we're beginning to think so too. If Macedo is out there, he apparently isn't after Eppes. We'd like to pull the surveillance."

"I don't know if the FBI is sold on that being gang-related," replied Tompkins. "I've been getting calls from the Colombian officials – they say an agent from the L.A. office keeps calling and requesting they resend the fax for the DNA results."

"You didn't tell them to do it, did you?" Stevens sounded alarmed. "We don't want word to get out – the fewer people that know about this, the better. We'd lose a big advantage if Macedo knows we're looking for him."

"No, I didn't allow the release of information," said Tompkins. "I wouldn't do that without talking to you first – you know that." He grinned and delivered a little jab. "You spooks really don't trust anyone, do you?"

"You got that. It's called self-preservation," came the dry response. "So what do you think about the surveillance?"

"You're sure you've seen nothing suspicious?" hedged Tompkins. "Dr. Eppes is an invaluable resource."

"Nothing. In fact, he and his family took an unexpected trip out to eat one night, and I think Don Eppes made our guys – either that or he was taking an unusually scenic route to the restaurant, really fast. If we keep our men on and they get spotted again, we may raise more questions than we want."

"All right, do me a favor," sighed Tompkins. "Keep them on until the weekend. If there is nothing else, go ahead and pull them."

"Right. Thanks – I can really use them elsewhere. Damn budget cuts. Have a good one."

Stevens signed off, and Tompkins rubbed his jaw absently as he hung up the phone. He'd rather err on the side of caution, but he could hardly insist on the surveillance when there was no evidence it was needed. He really should be relieved by that news, he thought to himself. Apparently Macedo, wherever he was, had other fish to fry, and retribution against Dr. Eppes didn't seem to be on his to-do list.

End, Chapter 16


	17. Gracias

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 17: ****Gracias**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

Don strode up to Charlie's house, whistling lightly through his teeth. It was Friday, and he hadn't been over since Sunday night, when his father had gotten back. He was in a good mood; the week had gone well, and he'd talked to Ana almost every night on the phone. They were leaving in a just over aweek for vacation in Maine, and Ana had made arrangements to meet them there.

As the weeks wore on after Charlie's hit and run, Don's anxiety over another attack had slowly diminished. He knew Ana still was convinced Macedo was out there somewhere, but Don had to concede that even if he was, he didn't seem to be after Charlie. Charlie's attack had seemed to be a random occurrence; maybe Megan had been right after all, and it was gang-related. After several days with nothing even remotely suspicious, Don's worry level had reduced to a slow simmer, and the thought of an approaching vacation had put those thoughts on the back burner. Now it was Friday, he was looking forward to some R&R at Charlie's and maybe pizza and a couple of beers to go with it.

He strolled into the kitchen, as Alan hung up the phone, saying cheerfully, "Pizza will be here in a half hour. You know, I've been looking at what to do while we're in Maine. Acadia National Park looks nice – you can drive through it or rent bikes – it looks like there are some beautiful bike trails around the lakes. There's an old restored building which has been turned into a restaurant in the middle of it, right on a lake – they serve afternoon tea there." He gave Don a nudge and a grin. "Sounds like a romantic afternoon."

Don had pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and twisted off the top, and he took a swig, to hide the unaccountable flush that had risen to his cheeks. It wasn't as if he'd never dated a girl, for God's sake. Or done a lot more than that, for that matter. This one, though, somehow seemed different; she made him feel like a kid again – awkward, a little flustered, and head-over-heels. He mumbled something indecipherable into his beer, as Alan continued.

"Then there's the high speed ferry out of Bar Harbor – you can cross the Sound and go all the way over to Nova Scotia, Canada in three hours. We could even spend a day or two over there."

"Sounds good," said Don noncommittally. Privately he was thinking to himself the rest of them could go; it would leave some alone time for him and Ana…He broke himself away from his musings guiltily. This had started out as a family vacation, and all he could think about was spending time with Ana. He needed to remember that Charlie could use some time with him too. The thought prompted his next words. "Where's Charlie?"

"In the garage. He's got some kind of meeting next week, and has been preparing for it. Some 'Hodge' something-or-other – it's some kind of math problem."

Don nodded and snagged another beer, and headed toward the garage. As he pushed open the door, he had to stifle a grin. Charlie had chalkboards hung everywhere, and was currently standing on a chair, writing on one that was suspended from the ceiling. He was covered in chalk dust, with a healthy helping in his unruly curls, which appeared to be in even more disarray than usual.

"Hey," he said, by way of greeting, and Charlie started and turned so quickly he lost his balance. He managed to turn a fall into a somewhat-controlled jump at the last minute, but staggered a little as he landed, wincing. Don's grin turned into a look of concern. "Sorry. Are you okay?"

Charlie dusted himself off a bit, and looked at him ruefully. "Yeah. That leg is just not quite as strong as the other one yet. Thanks," he added as Don handed him the beer. He took the top off and took a drink, not quite meeting Don's eyes.

Don looked around him. "This stuff's for your meeting?"

Charlie shot him a startled glance, and then covered it quickly. "Oh, yeah, Dad told you, I guess. I have to go to Kansas City for a meeting on this on Tuesday. It should be quick. I'm coming back Wednesday."

Charlie rubbed the back of his head and turned away, and his awkwardness made Don's radar come up. Or maybe it was the fact that Charlie traveling somewhere alone just didn't sit well – his father hadn't told him Charlie's meeting was so far away. He frowned. "So what's it for?"

Charlie paused for a moment; then answered, his eyes on one of the chalkboards. "It's one of the Millennium Problems."

Don frowned in concentration – Charlie had mentioned this before. "Oh, I've got it – it's one of those unsolvable math problems, right? The ones with the award attached."

Charlie nodded. "I've been asked to help verify a possible solution." He shot Don a sidelong glance. The truth was; he'd been stewing over the trip all week, wondering whether he should tell his brother about it, regardless of Penfield's instructions.

Don raised his eyebrows. "Someone solved it?"

"Yeah," said Charlie quietly. "He thinks he has."

"Wow," said Don, sounding suitably impressed. "So who is it – who are you meeting with?"

Charlie looked at him, hesitating only for a moment. He couldn't stand it anymore, he thought. Plus this involved Don, in a big way. He had to tell him. He spoke just as Don raised the bottle to his lips again. "Marshall Penfield."

The words caught Don in mid-swig, and he sputtered and choked. It took him a full minute to catch his breath, and when he looked up through streaming eyes, Charlie was hovering near him with a concerned look on his face. "Marshall Penfield!" Don croaked. "Charlie, are you out of your mind?"

Charlie looked back at him, miserably. "There's another reason I'm going. He's threatening you with a lawsuit. He said he'd drop it if I helped him publish his work and back it in the math community."

Don stared at him. "What?"

Charlie stopped and took a drink of his own beer – he suddenly felt like he needed it. He motioned toward the worn sofa. "Let's sit down."

They sat, but Don's stare hadn't broken. Charlie sighed. "He said he'd planned to file a lawsuit against you for bodily injury from the fight in the cabin." He swallowed, and shot Don a quick sideways glance, then looked away. "He said his lawyer uncovered some stuff from your past – something incriminating. He said it was enough to ruin your reputation and get you fired, maybe even sent to prison."

"What? That's bullshit!" Don exploded. He looked at Charlie with a hurt expression. "And you believed that?"

"No, no," protested Charlie. "I just – you know how lawyers work. They can take something innocent and twist it around. I figured maybe there was something you had to do while you were in fugitive recovery that they could manipulate, make it sound bad."

Don fell silent. The truth was; Charlie was probably right. There were some assignments back in those days that bordered on things that were – not illegal, but could possibly be construed that way. He and his partner, Billy Cooper, had walked some narrow lines, on more than one occasion. "Did they specifically say it involved my fugitive recovery work?"

"No," said Charlie. "I just figured that was the most likely. And then there's his bodily injury lawsuit – he made it sound like he had grounds – he threatened to clean you out financially."

Don shook his head angrily. "Charlie, I don't care what they're threatening – I can handle it. I really doubt they've dug up anything from fugitive recovery; most of those are sealed files, as far as the public's concerned. I'll bet a lot of it is an idle threat, just to get you to help with the publication. This is nothing to worry about. You shouldn't have to do this – to face him again."

"I think I should go," said Charlie, quietly but firmly, "just to see what they've got. I can always make a decision after I've seen their grounds for a case, and what Penfield's got on the problem."

"Well, if you're going, you're sure not going by yourself," Don returned, just as firmly. "I'm going with you."

"They said to come alone," Charlie protested. "It's not like it will be dangerous – he is in a federal maximum security prison."

Don shook his head. "I don't care. Even if they won't let me sit in on your meeting, I'm going with you on the trip. At the very least you'll need someone to talk to after you face him, again." He sat in silence for a moment, obviously thinking; then looked almost shyly at his brother. "Thank-you."

Charlie looked back, surprised. "For what?"

Don regarded the bottle in his hand. "For trusting me enough to tell me this; for not keeping it a secret and sneaking off to face him on your own." Charlie was stunned into speechlessness long enough for Don to take a final swig of his beer, and stand. "I'm getting another one of these. Do you want one?"

Charlie glanced down at his bottle, still nearly full. "No – go ahead." He sighed as he watched Don leave the garage, but deep inside, he was both relieved and touched. The fact that his brother cared enough to go with him – and say the things he had -- gave him a warm feeling, and he could feel some of the tension drift away. Don was probably right; this was nothing to worry about.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Ana had followed the caretaker's directions, and now she stood at her mother's gravesite. It was marked with a modest marble stone; one that Ana had sent money for herself, after her mother was murdered months earlier. She had not come to the funeral. As far as she knew, there had not been one. Marlita's chosen "family" had been the man who was also presumed dead; her "friends" had been his other employees. Many of them were also dead, the others languished in prison. There had been no one to mourn her.

Now, Ana's dark hair whipped around her face in the afternoon breeze, and she mourned it all. She mourned her lost childhood, and her exile to a strange land, alone and afraid. She mourned the years of confusion and anger that had prevented her from truly knowing a woman whose heart had led her to risk her life for another. She mourned a future in which her own children would not know their grandmother.

She walked slowly to the head of the grave and trailed her fingers over the top of the tombstone. "Mama," she heard herself say, and she looked away quickly to the horizon. She blinked rapidly, crossed her arms over her chest and breathed for a moment before she turned back to the grave. "Mama. They say you died a hero. I met Charlie; the man you tried to help. The woman he described is not the woman I had decided you were. I…I have been angry, for I wanted you to be _my_ hero. He believes that you were; that you saved me the only way you could – by giving me up." She sighed, and brought both hands to her face to wipe it dry. "If that is so," she whispered as her hands dropped, "I want to thank you." Then she kneeled beside the grave, and extended one hand slowly, until she could rest her palm on the slightly rounded mound of unsettled dirt. She let the warmth of the grass seep into her fingers for almost a full minute, remaining silent, before she stood again. "I believe I am falling in love," she shared, crossing her arms over her chest again. "I wish…it would help, to be able to speak with you. I am not sure what to believe about you."

She turned and began to walk away from the grave, but stopped a few feet away, turning for a final look at the stone. "I believe this, Mama. I have always loved you, and I will forever miss you." The breeze increased its intensity, and her simple cotton dress danced in a frenzy around her tanned, bare legs. Ana smoothed her skirt, lowered her head into the wind, and left.

End, Chapter 17


	18. And So It Begins

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 18: And So It Begins**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

The night before "Super Tuesday", Macedo went back to the medical plaza. He only needed to sneak into the woman's office for a moment; he wanted to make sure that a genuine member of the cleaning crew had not found the cell and removed it; that it was still safely secured beneath the couch.

Finding that it was, he sighed gently in relief and prepared to leave the way he had come. As he crept toward the door leading into Campbell's waiting room, a glass-doored cabinet in the corner caught his attention. He turned his penlight more fully upon it and approached, curious.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile as he realized what he was seeing, and his mind put 2 + 2 together. The woman was a medical doctor, a psychiatrist. She used drugs in the treatment of her patients. Vials of Haldol, Thorazine and Clozapine stood as tiny soldiers behind a box of syringes, and several bubble packs of medications such as Ambien, and Valium. It was the mother lode.

Macedo reached into the pocket of his overalls for the set of lock picks, but he stopped before he touched the cabinet. This brainless excitement was not how to succeed in business. True, he was wearing a pair of latex gloves; no sense in leaving his brand new fingerprints in the woman's office. No doubt the police would get around to checking for that sort of thing, after they discovered her body. But drugs such as these were inventoried every day; often, twice – in the morning and then before closing. If he took so much as a speck of dust from this office, the entire plan could be ruined.

Macedo pocketed the picks again and smiled. This floor was full of psychiatrist's offices. He would simply choose the one farthest away from this one, and help himself there. Besides, as much as he would like to take it all, this was no time for short-term greed. He really only needed a few things.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Alan speared a tiny carrot hiding under his slab of roast beef and held his fork up in triumph, waving it at his sons. "I just don't understand why you're going, Don. Forgive me, but what exactly do _you_ hope to contribute to a high-level mathematics pow-wow? Besides, surely you're busy at work this week…tying…getting…doing whatever it is you do, before you take three weeks off." He glared over the bit of carrot. "Not that you've ever taken three weeks off, before. Is this some extravagant plan to get out of our vacation?"

Don protested mightily, and tried for distraction. "What? No, no, Dad, of course not! After all, Ana's meeting me in Maine!"

Alan chewed on his carrot and narrowed his eyes, studying his eldest. "But she's going to be here for two weeks, first. Maybe you're just trying to postpone when you join us."

Don upped the ante. He sighed dramatically. "I swear, Dad, that's not the case. Charlie and I will go to the… presentation… tomorrow afternoon, and we'll fly right back on Wednesday. I've still got PTO and vacation time that's been accumulating for years; it's backed up higher than this house. I just don't think Charlie is healthy enough to take on a trip like this on his own, yet."

Now his brother was glaring at him, but Don was relieved to see that the ploy had worked, and Alan's attention was now on Charlie. "Son? Haven't you been feeling well?" He clanged his silverware forcefully on his plate and scowled. "You've been working too hard, trying to get everything done before we take this vacation." He picked up his fork again and used it to indicate Charlie's mostly full plate. "Don't think I don't notice that all you do is artfully rearrange your food, half the time."

Charlie reached for the glass of wine. Don winced at his white-knuckled grip, and hoped he didn't end up shattering the glass. "I'm _fine_," he answered, annoyed, and downed the entire glass in one swallow before he placed it back on the table. He shot Don a dirty look that was too real to be an act. "I didn't ask Don to go with me, but I didn't exactly charter an aircraft. I can't stop him from buying a ticket on the same flight." He used his own fork to pierce a new potato and popped it into his mouth.

Alan tried to smooth waters he had been the one to rile up; he might not understand why Don was going with Charlie to this math thing, but if truth be told he was glad he was. "Now, now, don't get in an uproar about it," he grumbled. "Who wants pie?"

**8:00 AM PST; Tuesday**

The aircraft had just leveled off and already the flight attendants were taking breakfast orders. Seated as they were in the rear of coach, however, Charlie did a quick calculation and estimated that it would be nearly 17 minutes before he and Don had a chance to order. "I was perfectly willing to pay for decent seats," he grumbled at his brother. "I even intended to buy you breakfast. By the time she gets back here, all of the bagel sandwiches will be gone and we'll get stuck with those reconstituted, yellow-dye-laden, scrambled...eggs..., or worse, one of those rubber Danish pastry wannabes."

Don, who preferred the window seat but was hanging halfway out into the aisle, shot his brother a look that clearly said, "Don't mess with me." He grunted out a reply. "I don't know what you're complaining about anyway, Chuck. It's not like you'd eat anyway. And by the way, you're welcome."

Charlie continued to grouse. "For what? For seats in the back row? I swear, Don, you have such a damn hero complex. First you insist on coming with me; then you get yourself named as Air Marshall..." Don elbowed him hard in the ribs, and Charlie's voice broke off in a yelp of pain. Several heads turned in their direction.

Don smiled benignly and spoke out of the corner of his mouth, like a bad ventriloquist. "Pipe down, Charlie! The idea is for me to remain incognito! Besides, what are you bitching for? You have way too much money if you're insulted by free airfare."

Charlie rubbed at his insulted ribs and turned injured eyes on his brother, going for his best wounded puppy look. "I told you I'd pay your way. We could be in first class and having...I don't know..._pancakes_ or something, by now."

Don rolled his eyes and let his gaze flit around the cabin, looking for trouble; might as well do his job. "You hate pancakes. And that look hasn't worked on me since 1996."

In spite of himself, Charlie laughed. Don smiled in response and turned as much as he could toward him, lowering his voice. "I didn't volunteer for the free airfare. I wanted to pack my service weapon."

Charlie looked a little startled, and his eyes widened. "Why? Did you hear something about this flight?"

He looked around nervously, and Don patted him awkwardly on the arm. "No, of course not. You think I'd book us on...it's just that we don't know for sure what we're flying into, ya know? I feel safer this way."

Charlie swallowed, still obviously disturbed. "Well, I'm glad one of us does."

Don chuckled and decided to change the subject. "Look at it this way. We're pretty close to the bathroom."

Charlie's face relaxed a little with his sarcastic reply. "Which we will no doubt need, after breakfast." Don laughed again, and Charlie decided changing the subject was a good idea. "So when does Ana arrive in L.A.?"

Don frowned. "In about an hour, actually. I asked Dad to give her a call at her hotel later and see if she needs anything." He looked sheepishly at the floor. "I programmed her number into his cell." He glanced quickly at Charlie. "Yours, too. I hope you don't mind."

Charlie tried hard not to laugh and embarrass Don any further, but he couldn't resist at least a smile. "Uh...no, I don't mind. I'm not sure I can help, since I'm going to be in Kansas..."

This time he managed to block Don's jab to the ribs with his arm. "I just thought, if she tries to call and my phone is busy, or something, you idiot."

Charlie stopped trying to hide his smile. "You've got it bad, bro. I remember after that first horrible date with Amita, I made Larry call her on her cell just to make sure she hadn't changed the number and not told me." He stopped talking abruptly, a little stunned to hear the memory roll so easily off his tongue.

Don was surprised as well -- but also felt a surge of hope. Maybe Charlie was coming to a place where the memories brought comfort, instead of pain. Rather than make his brother uncomfortable by drawing attention to the words, Don just laughed easily and bumped Charlie's knee with his own. "Dude, did you hear the flight attendant?" The woman was finally only four rows ahead of them, and at Charlie's shake of the head, Don continued with a smirk. "They're out of bagels. All they have left is scrambled eggs."

**10:00 AM CST; Tuesday**

Hector Macedo had parked the rented sedan across the quiet street from Bill Campbell's home, and waited for the doctor to arrive with her child. When he saw the Dodge Caravan turn into the cul de sac, he laid down quickly across the front seat of the car. He stayed there and listened to the van pass him, and maintained his position long after he heard the happy chattering of the two-year-old greeting her father. He continued to remain out of sight while he picked out the sounds of the van backing out of the driveway and then accelerating as it passed his vehicle again. His watch had counted off a full five minutes before he sat up, cautiously. He sat for a few more minutes in the car, then opened the door, climbed out and took a leisurely stroll down the street. He kept his eyes keen for any sign of activity, or nosy neighbors. Finally satisfied, he returned to the car and slowly pulled into the sparse traffic. He moved a few blocks away, to a small public park, where he killed another half hour. He sat on a bench facing the intersection Bill Campbell would be forced to pass through, should he leave the house, and slipped an energy bar from his suit jacket.

He had thoroughly masticated his breakfast by the time he returned to the car and drove back to Bill Campbell's house. This time he parked directly in the driveway.

He exited the vehicle with purpose, straightened his jacket and ran a hand over his perfectly coiffed hair as he approached the front door. He removed his sunglasses and rapped sharply on the wood. Almost immediately he heard heavy footsteps approaching, and in just a few seconds, the door swung open to reveal Bill Campbell. Dressed casually in a t-shirt and sweats, he exhibited surprise at seeing the well-dressed stranger on his porch. "G...good morning. Can I help you?" The sound of cartoons raging somewhere in the background floated over the words, and he smiled, raising his voice a little. "I'm sorry. My daughter is watching television."

Macedo offered a thin smile in response, but his face maintained a carefully composed seriousness. "Bill Campbell?"

The man frowned in apprehension. After darting a quick look over his shoulder, he stepped onto the porch and pulled the door shut a little behind him, deadening the cartoon screech some. "Yes, yes, I'm Bill Campbell. And you are?"

Macedo offered a hand, and tilted his head. "Arnie Patterson." Bill regarded his hand for a moment and finally reached out to shake it half-heartedly. Macedo continued. "I'm so sorry that I must inform you of this, Mr. Campbell. I work at Leavenworth. There has been...an incident...at the prison, and your wife was involved."

Campbell paled dramatically and dropped Macedo's hand. "What? My wife? She...she said she was seeing a prisoner, but I just assumed they were bringing him to the office..."

Macedo clucked sadly. "Ordinarily that is the arrangement, yes. She was requested at the prison this morning to evaluate another prisoner; a man who is not her patient." Macedo tried to look sad, but only succeeded at looking cold. "I'm afraid we don't know yet how it happened. The prisoner should have been thoroughly searched before your wife was allowed anywhere near him."

Campbell drew in a shaky breath. "Oh, my God. Are you saying she's hurt? Was my wife hurt?"

Macedo shook his head, pursing his lips. "I'm sorry, sir. It's quite serious. I can transport you to the hospital..."

Campbell's hand shook as he turned and pushed the door open again. "I...can't; my...my daughter..."

Macedo stepped quickly into the house behind him. "Pack what she will need for several hours in a bag, and bring her. There is a childcare facility at the hospital for just this purpose."

Campbell didn't seem to mind Macedo following him into the house and continued until he reached a hallway, where he turned and looked at him doubtfully. "Maybe I should drop her at her regular day care..."

Macedo nodded. "As you wish. I would be happy to check on her, while..." He smiled almost apologetically. "Perhaps you would like to change?"

Bill looked down at his sweats and bare feet, and ran his hand through his hair absently. "Shit," he said, turning away from Macedo and taking a step into the hallway. "Yeah. Good, could you? She should be fine. Her name's Gaby."

Macedo stepped close behind him. With one hand he withdrew the hunting knife from the sheath on his belt, underneath his jacket, while he clapped the other solidly on Bill Campbell's shoulder. "I do regret this, Señor," he said.

Gaby's father halted his steps, confused, and whirled around to face Macedo. "What?"

Macedo smiled, his eyes ice, as he plunged the knife home. He buried the six-inch blade hilt-deep in Campbell's abdomen. Bill's eyes widened in shock and pain, but he did not even have time to scream before Macedo brought the knife up, to the left and down again, disemboweling him in the house he had built with his own two hands.

The Colombian released his hold on Campbell's shoulder. As the man dropped bonelessly to the floor, the knife pulled free from his gut with a satisfying, sucking sound. Macedo stood over the body for a few moments while he recovered a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on. He leaned over and wiped the handle of the hunting knife down thoroughly with Bill Campbell's own t-shirt. Suddenly inspired, he lifted one of the dead hands and wrapped it around the handle; the _policía_ would have a fine time figuring that one out. Then he dropped the hand back to the floor and with a quick thrust, buried the knife in the dead man's chest. Standing up again, he removed a cell phone from his jacket and backed up a little, until he could center the tableau in the viewfinder as he held the phone up over the body. "Smile," he instructed before he took the picture. Satisfied with his work, Macedo flipped the cell closed and returned it to his pocket.

Finally, he turned and walked toward the sound of cartoons.

End, Chapter 18

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

**A One-Coon A/N to Tanager: fanfic will not reproduce your e-mail address. send me something from it so I can reply. Fraidy**

**To make up for this rude interruption, I will post another chapter today.**

­


	19. Perfect Timing, Part I

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 19: Perfect Timing**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**11:00 AM CST; Tuesday**

If he had been a nervous individual, the tight schedule would have been difficult. To the contrary, however, Macedo rather enjoyed the pressure. This was why his research had been so thorough.

He managed to kill the father, find the applesauce in the kitchen, and feed the crushed Ambien to the little girl in the space of 15 minutes. He was back on the road to the farm by 10:17. He had let the child lay on the seat beside him, playing with a ridiculous stuffed lamb, knowing she would be asleep within minutes. Gaby had been more than willing to forego the car seat ritual, and had proven to be little trouble. At a stop sign while still in town, Macedo had reached into the back seat and grabbed the blanket he had left there for that specific purpose. He covered her as she slept, reducing the risk of discovery.

He was careful not to speed or break any traffic laws on the way to Kerrville. The morning traffic was blessedly light, and he still arrived by 10:45. A dog rushed out to yip at them frantically as he carried the child inside, but Macedo allowed the mutt a whiff of his bundle. When it recognized the scent of the little girl, the dog lost interest and darted ahead of them into the house, seeking out the back utility porch and its bowl of kibble.

Macedo worked quickly, hands encased in gloves once again. He had carried in his bag of supplies with the girl, and now he removed duct tape and wound it firmly around her tiny limbs, securely binding her wrists and ankles to each other. He slapped another piece of tape over her mouth. By now she was very pale, her respirations slow, and he was fairly certain she would never regain consciousness. It was difficult to know, however; the packet of Ambien he had stolen had contained only a few 5-milligram pills, and he had not used them all. No matter. When he was finished with Eppes, he would take care of the woman and her daughter, if she was still living.

He arranged her limp body on the couch almost artfully and took his time taking the picture. Whistling, he called the dog to him and shoved the mangy cur outside. It was not quite 11:00 AM when he started his second trip to town.

**9:00 AM PST; Tuesday**

Charlie checked his watch and spoke rather anxiously. "Where exactly does the Pacific time zone end and Central begin?"

Don looked at him and arched an eyebrow. "Some genius. Aren't you forgetting a tiny zone known as 'Mountain'?"

Charlie reddened and scowled. "We've been up here an hour; we're probably in that already, huh?"

Don shook his head. "I don't know, Charlie. What's the big deal, anyway? Are you supposed to parachute out somewhere or something? You need to synchronize your watch?"

Charlie reached into the seatback pocket in front of him and withdrew the Skymall magazine, opening it with such a flourish that a card stock readers' reply card flew out and bounced off the lap of the plump woman squished next to the window. "Sorry," he mumbled, bending to pick it up. When he straightened again, he glared at Don. "I just like knowing where I am. Is that all right with you?"

Don gave it a moment, studying Charlie pretending to read the magazine, before he answered. "Charlie, are you okay? You know, you don't have to go through with this. We'll just have dinner in Kansas City and fly back tomorrow like we planned."

Charlie sighed and flipped another page forcefully. "I'm fine. Perfect. Just let me read this magazine, will you?"

Don reached out and gently turned the magazine 180 degrees. "Probably make more sense when it's not upside-down."

Charlie looked down at the magazine. "Oh. I wondered why that dog laid on its back long enough for someone to build a house on his stomach."

Don snorted, took the magazine from Charlie, and put it back in the seat pocket. "Seriously, bro. Don't feel like you have to do this to protect me, or something. I'm not worried about anything that asshole says. Forensics dug bullets from his gun out of that table, and the cabin wall. One of them was matched to my wound, so it's cut-and-dried. Self-defense."

Charlie shivered and used one hand to rub warmth into the other arm. His eyes flicked briefly to Don's, then away again. "I…should face him. Isn't that what Megan, or Dr. Bradford, would say?"

Don shook his head. "I sincerely doubt that. For one thing, you _did_ face him; back at the cabin. For another, Megan knows I'm her boss, and Bradford knows I pay his bills."

Charlie looked at him quickly. "Pay? As in present tense?"

It was Don's turn to blush. He let his eyes roam the cabin again. "I may have seen him recently. Just to make sure I don't screw this up with Ana, the way I did with Liz. And every other woman I've ever met."

Charlie frowned. "You didn't 'screw up', Don. The timing was just off."

Don laughed and looked back at his brother fondly. "Five times? Liz, Robin, Terry, Kim, Rebecca…"

Charlie looked interested. "Terry, huh? I always knew you guys had the hots for each other. And who was Rebecca?"

Don let loose an exaggerated sigh. "You think I was a monk during my minor league career, Buddy?"

To his relief, Charlie grinned in obvious delight. "I'll tell you about Susan if you tell me about Rebecca."

Don smiled widely. "I already know about Susan. What's in it for me?"

Charlie winked. "Not Susan Barry, from Oxford. Susan Williamson from Princeton."

Don's eyes widened. "Princeton. Where you were from the ages of 14 through 17? With _my mother_, no less?"

Charlie reclined his seat back and squirmed into a more comfortable position in his seat. He looked at Don. "And you thought I couldn't keep a secret."

**11:40 AM CST; Tuesday**

Macedo gentled his rented sedan into the parking garage, smiling as he passed the roped-off exterior parking lot, smelling the hot asphalt even in the enclosed car. It had been ridiculously easy to schedule the re-paving. The contractor had taken him at face value when he claimed to work for the development company that owned the medical plaza. Even though he had been prepared with cash, the idiot even offered to bill them after the job was done. Some offices in the building were still for rent, and it had been simple to determine that the ownership of the building was not local. Those who worked within would all assume someone else had requested the re-paving; and by the time the corporate office in Jefferson City found out about it, he would be long gone. America was indeed the land of opportunity.

He drove slowly through the entire parking garage, starting with the first level, looking for the van. The structure was small -- only three stories, and there was no security. The ground floor spaces had no doubt filled up early, when people came to work. Macedo recognized Dr. Campbell's Caravan before he ascended to the second level. There were fewer cars here, and less pedestrian activity. He circled slowly and carefully, searching for the prison transport, but found nothing. Macedo felt almost giddy as he drove up the ramp to the top level of the garage. The guard may have picked this level for its seclusion, but he was going to live to regret that decision; just barely, of course.

He saw it right away. There were only a few cars, one pick-up and the van, on this level. No one was in sight, and the van was parked in the space closest to the elevator that would take its passengers directly to the medical plaza's lobby. Hector parked a few spaces away and began his preparations. Quickly, he shed both his suit jacket and dress shirt, soon stripped down to a white t-shirt and slacks. He transferred the cell from the jacket to one of his pant pockets. Reaching over the seatback, he grabbed a duffle bag and yanked it up front. Unzipping it, he withdrew yet another pair of latex gloves, another t-shirt, and a container of Formula 409. He stuffed his discarded clothing inside. He opened the driver's door and dropped the duffle outside on the concrete. Then he removed the keys from the ignition, sprayed them and wiped them clean of all prints -- and threw them away from the vehicle as far as he could. Turning his attention back to the interior of the car, he proceeded. Working rapidly, he sprayed the 409 on the seat beside him; the dashboard; the center console, and radio. As he used the crumpled t-shirt to wipe all of the surfaces down, he backed slowly out of the vehicle. He continued to spray and wipe as he exposed more areas; the steering wheel; the ignition; the driver's seat. He had been careful not to touch anything else in the car; but to be safe; he leaned over the bench seat and wiped down the back as well. Eventually he was completely outside the car. He spritzed and cleaned the interior of the door, depressing the button that would lock the vehicle, and then pushed it closed. After dousing the outside door handle especially thoroughly with the 409, he included the exterior side view mirror for good measure. He picked up the duffle and walked around to clean the front passenger door, which he had opened to deal with the girl. Finally satisfied, he returned the products to the duffle and closed it again. Moving toward the prison van, he unzipped a side pocket on the bag, and withdrew two capped syringes. One contained a mixture of the drugs he had found in someone's office the night before; the syringe was as full as he could get it, and he knew the combination of drugs would drop a horse. The second syringe was empty, and he placed both gingerly in the pocket that did not already contain the cell phone.

Macedo spied a trashcan near the elevator, so he passed the van, went to the receptacle, and shoved the duffle inside. It would be safe there, and out of sight, for the few minutes he needed. The night before, he had made the trip from Dr. Campbell's office to the second level of the parking garage twice, so he was relatively sure how long it would take the guard to arrive. With the added foot traffic and the fact that he needed to come to the third level, Macedo felt safe adding a solid minute to that time. Now, he returned to the van and examined it visually; even bending over to look underneath. He straightened, and smiled again. His weeks of preparation had included a trip to Jefferson City, where he did some research on the development company; and visited the State Department of Transportation, in the guise of a salesman trying to sell them a new alarm system for all state-owned vehicles. The clerk he had cold-called eagerly had assured him that he was wasting his time; the state already had a sophisticated, highly sensitive system in place. Why, the alarms even included a remote device that the driver could carry with him; he would know when the alarm was activated, up to a distance of half a mile. Macedo was sure now that he had plenty of time to snap a wiper hard into the windshield, which would be all it would take to set the alarm off, and drop to the ground and shimmy underneath the van. He would tuck his feet under the front axle, find secure handholds on the chassis, and pull himself up. He could hold the position for a long time. Already in excellent condition, he had been training for this maneuver for three weeks.

He was also studying American colloquialisms; such knowledge would come in handy in his new business. And this? This was a piece of cake.

**11:46 AM, CST; Tuesday**

Rick Lennox felt the alarm unit on his belt vibrate and jumped off the couch in Dr. Campbell's anteroom so fast he frightened the young receptionist. She regarded him with wide eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Lennox let his eyes stray to the door that led to the doctor's inner office and placed a hand on his gun before he looked back at the receptionist, whose eyes had grown even larger. "Someone's messing with the prison van," he said. "The alarm just went off."

"It's because we all had to use the parking garage today. It's so secluded in there. People don't try this sort of stuff when we're parked out in the lot, or on the street. The Doctor and I were just saying this morning that as soon as we find out who scheduled the re-paving for business hours, we're…."

Lennox had made up his mind and was already halfway to the outer door. "Listen," he interrupted. "They'll be in there for almost half an hour. I'll be back by then. Just in case I'm not, you buzz the Doc a couple of minutes before 12:15 and tell her to stall. I'm going to check out the van."

Rick broke into an easy jog as soon as he hit the hallway. He wanted to reach the van quickly, but the last thing he needed was a bunch of panicked citizens. He bypassed the slow elevator and took the stairs to the lobby, where he had to take a second elevator to the parking garage. By the time it arrived and he hurried inside, jabbing the button for the third level, he was second-thinking his decision to park all the way up there. If he had been able to find a spot on the ground level, he wouldn't have, probably. Faced with the choice between two and three, he had opted for the least civilian activity. Maybe that had been a mistake.

The lift finally groaned to a stop and Lennox squeezed out before the doors were fully opened. He could see the van right away, and he could also see that no one was near it. In fact, looking around the garage as he walked toward the transport, he could see that no one was up here at all. He dug in his pocket for the keys and pressed the button on the key fob that would turn the alarm off. Rick slowly circled the van, checking the outside for signs of disturbance, and saw none. Moving a little closer, he began to peer into the windows to see if anything was amiss inside. "Stupid system," he grumbled to himself. "Damn thing goes off in a stiff breeze." Certain now that it had been a false alarm, Lennox nonetheless continued a second circle around the van, thoroughly checking the interior through each window.

It was precisely 11:51 AM CST when Macedo determined that the feet he had been watching were close enough. He lowered himself to the concrete floor in absolute silence, and reached into his pocket to withdraw the heaviest syringe. After he had popped the cap, Macedo executed a half-roll toward the feet. With both the speed and the motivation of a viper, one hand shot out from underneath the van and gripped, vise-like, the guard's closest ankle. Lennox yipped in surprise and jerked, but he was unable to pull away before he registered a sharp sting in his calf. Macedo barely had time to push all of the drugs out of the syringe before the guard folded in a heap, cracking his head loudly on the concrete floor.

Hector Macedo did not let the excitement of the moment carry him away; he never did. Rather, he surveyed the garage from under the van first; to make sure they were still alone, before he pushed the guard's legs out of the way and crawled out. Placing a hand on the man's chest, he felt it expand with a breath and knew that he was still alive. In one motion, he removed the second syringe from his pocket while he moved a few more feet to one of the guard's sprawled arms. With practiced and sure slaps, he raised a vein on the interior elbow. Popping the cap from the empty syringe, he withdrew the plunger a little before he inserted the needle into the vein. After shooting a bubble of air into the guard, Macedo extricated and re-capped the syringe. As the bubble of air stopped the flow of blood and killed Rick Lennox, Macedo re-capped the syringe and returned it to his pocket, just in case he needed it again, later. Then he retrieved the keys to the van, which had fallen from Lennox's suddenly nerveless fingers, and unlocked it as he climbed to his feet. He moved to the back of the van, opening the door to the cargo area. Turning back to the guard, he bent to wrestle the man inside.

He had seven minutes to strip the guard down to his boxers, and put the uniform on himself.

End, Chapter 19

­


	20. Perfect Timing, Part II

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 20: Perfect Timing, Part II**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**12:05 PM CST**

Marshall was certain he was having a heart attack.

This was the third Tuesday. This was the day Macedo had promised -- more or less -- to spring him during this outpatient visit. Yet here he sat, with only 10 minutes left, and nothing had happened. Trying to use his considerable brain power to Macedo's advantage, Marshall had even put Charlie on his visitor list; just in case Eppes decided to call and check, or something. Now, if something didn't take place in the next nine minutes, Penfield had approximately two-and-a-half hours to solve the Hodge conjecture. Of course, if his non-existent attorney never picked the doctor up at the airport in Kansas City, the little weasel would know something was up, anyway He'd probably call his brother to whine about it and Marshall would end up in solitary.

He heard the doctor sigh and caught the exasperated note in her voice. "If you're not going to participate in this session, Mr. Penfield, perhaps we should just call it a day."

He had been staring at his lap, picking imaginary lint off his jumpsuit, but now Marshall jerked his head up in apprehension. "Oh, now, Dr. Campbell. What are _you_ so testy about? I assure you, the federal government will compensate you well for your time."

She frowned, tapping a pen on the top of her desk forcefully. Her voice was icy. "Mr. Penfield, I will _not_ be part of some...scam...you're pulling just so you can get off campus every week..."

Marshall snorted. "Campus? You're referring to the United States pen at Leavenworth as a _'campus'_? Oh, that's rich. I mean, really." He continued, inserting a healthy dose of sarcasm into his words. "I hadn't made the connection yet, but it does rather remind me of my years in the Ivy League."

Dr. Campbell felt the heat of anger flush her face, but she was too professional to let it enter her voice. "I'll repeat the question, Mr. Penfield. What do you consider your greatest accomplishment?"

At that moment the cell tucked safely under the couch Marshall was sitting on finally resonated with sound. Lydia's own cell phone was not even in her inner office; she always left it in her purse, locked in the receptionist's desk, unwilling to take the chance of disturbing a session. Surely prisoners weren't allowed to have cell phones, now. "What..." she began, eyes wandering around the perimeter of the room. Those same eyes widened in disbelief when she focused on her patient, who was reaching underneath the couch and dislodging a ringing cell.

He stood, awkwardly, and took a few mincing steps in his shackles as he ripped duct-tape off the phone and thrust it in her direction. "It's for you."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

"You know, Dad's birthday is coming up."

Don thought Charlie might have been dozing off, and while he probably should have let him, he was trying to stay awake himself. Wouldn't do for the Air Marshall to fall asleep on the job.

Charlie's head, which had been slumping to his chest, jerked up and he blinked owlishly at the heads in front of him before he lifted one hand to rub at an eye and turned his face toward Don. "Did you say something?" he asked sleepily.

Okay, so maybe Charlie wasn't so much 'dozing', as he was, 'out like a light'. Don hadn't realized he was that far gone, and now he felt a little guilty. "Sorry. I didn't know you were asleep."

Charlie shrugged, yawned, and dropped his hand back to his lap. "Well, I'm not. Anymore. So, what?"

Don mimicked his brother's shrug. "I was just saying that Dad's birthday is coming up soon. Do you have any ideas?"

Charlie grinned. "Let's not do the fishing boat thing again."

Don rolled his eyes and laughed. "Hey, that was a good idea. Dad loves to fish. Who knew there was a reason he never took us out on a boat?"

Charlie chuckled. "I had to throw that pair of tennis shoes away. How come none of his breakfast ended up on you? It was _your_ idea."

Don looked down his nose smugly. "I can read a suspect, Charlie; and Dad was definitely looking suspect." Charlie laughed, and after a moment, Don continued the conversation. "So, a cruise would probably not be a great idea, either."

Charlie looked at him seriously. "Actually, I've heard that cruises seldom present problems in that area. The ships generally move so slowly, and are so large, that most passengers never detect the movement of the sea." A shadow of doubt crossed his features. "Unless the water is particularly rough, that is."

Don pretended to think about it for a while; then shook his head. "There's still a high element of risk."

Charlie agreed, and nodded. "For whoever's standing next to him at the rail, as well. I suppose we could split his share of the vacation. After all, his birthday _is_ just a few days after we return."

A thought occurred to Don and he looked at Charlie with horror. "You don't think he'll get sick on the ferry, do you?"

Charlie's eyes widened; then narrowed. "Not if I spike his orange juice with enough Dramamine."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

"Please listen to my directions and then look at the display screen on the cell. I am transmitting two photos. Do nothing to attract undue attention. Do not so much as breathe loudly. When you are ready for further instructions, come back on the line."

Lydia had been stunned when Marshall had come at her with the phone, and she had taken it from him almost automatically. She was just now starting to piece together the evidence. Penfield had expected the phone to ring. That was why he had been so distracted, all day. He had known exactly where it was, and he had handed it to her without even answering it. She was in the middle of a prison break, and she didn't even work there anymore.

Hand shaking slightly, she lowered the phone and waited for the photos to load. Despite Macedo's warning, she gasped loudly and pressed a hand to her mouth when the picture of Bill popped up. The blood, the knife sticking out of his chest; both were apparent even in the tiny, grainy display. She looked quickly at Penfield, who held a finger first to his lips in a warning to silence, then slowly drew that same finger across his throat. Lydia looked back at the phone, and the photo of Gaby was loading. Her baby was covered in what looked like gray duct tape, and her eyes were closed. "Oh, my God," Lydia whispered. She raised the phone quickly to her ear. "Let me talk to Gaby. What have you done to my baby?" Her voice was rising in volume with her terror, but Marshall was nothing if not a genius. He had minced his way close to the doctor and stood behind her chair. Now, he leaned over a bit and encircled her with one arm, pulling her back roughly into the padded leather. With the other hand he slapped the duct tape he had salvaged from the phone over her mouth; not very securely, he noticed, when he shuffled back around to the side of the chair. He tried to make up for that with the vicious and threatening glare he had perfected in his dealings with his cellmate. In the end, it didn't really matter. Lydia was too surprised and frightened to struggle. Penfield, who had seen the photos load himself, decided to guarantee her cooperation anyway, and leaned again to whisper menacingly. "You shut-up and listen, bitch. He's with her right now, and if you ever want to see that little girl again, you'd better do what he says."

Lydia nodded, eyes wide, and hummed into the phone. "Mmmmm?"

Macedo had heard Marshall with the woman, and now he played along. "He is correct. You will do as I instruct, or my men will notify me and I will kill the child, as I did her father."

Tears flowed from Lydia's eyes, and she squeezed them shut. "Mmm. Mmm."

"Very well. Soon, a uniformed guard will appear to escort my friend to the prison van. This will be a different man from the one you saw earlier this morning, but you are not to question him or speak to him in any way. You are to permit the men to leave. Do not alert your receptionist that anything is wrong. Send the woman to lunch. Do not phone or contact anyone; do not answer any calls. Do you understand?"

Lydia opened her eyes again and locked them on Marshall. She wanted him to see she was cooperating; he had to help her save Gaby. "Mmmm."

"Very well." Macedo cleared his throat. "At precisely 12:30, you will go to your Dodge Caravan on the first level of the parking garage. Do not take your cell phone with you. Get in, and start the engine. Watch in your rear view mirror until you see the prison van pass by on the way to the exit. You must then follow the van. You will both take U.S. 73 and follow it north, as if heading for Atchison. At Mile 13 there is a junction with U.S. 59 north. Facing this junction is a large vacant warehouse. It used to house appliances for a store with franchises in both Leavenworth and Atchison. They are out of business now, and the warehouse is empty. There is a 'For Sale' sign in front. Follow the van to the parking lot in back of the warehouse. My…employee…and Marshall Penfield will exit the prison transport and enter your Caravan. You will return to the freeway, heading south this time. You will double back to Leavenworth, then head east on 92. You are to bring them directly to your farm near Kerrville, where your daughter and I await. Are my instructions clear?"

Lydia nodded her head vigorously, and tears flew off her cheeks. "Mmmm. Mmmmm. Mmmmm."

Macedo stood in the stairwell fifty feet away, and smiled. "You must arrive at the farm no later than 1:15. At that point I will kill the child."

Lydia trembled and clutched the phone tightly, and the roaring in her ears almost drowned out his next words. "Return the phone to Mr. Penfield. At 12:15, when the session is due to end, escort him to the outer office."

This time she didn't make a sound, but simply handed the phone to Marshall. He had not been physically restraining her in any way, but her terror for her child was all-consuming. There was no fragment of her brain left to determine how easily she could have removed the duct tape and screamed, or how much damage the marble paperweight on her desk might do if she buried it in his brain.

Marshall smiled but didn't take his eyes off the doctor, as he put the phone to his ear. "Yes?"

"All goes well," Macedo answered. "She believes there are more men involved and that I am with her child. In six minutes she will escort you to the door; make sure she is cleaned up, so that nothing is suspicious. I have dispatched the guard and will appear as his replacement. Follow my lead. Yes?"

Marshall's smile widened, and he winked at the doctor. "Oh, yes."

**12:11 PM, PST**

Macedo burst through the door from the hallway into the outer office, a bundle of frenetic energy. "Did I make it on time?" he asked the receptionist breathlessly. "They told me to be here before 12:15."

She jolted a little, startled, before gazing at him with confused eyes, taking in the security uniform. "Who're you? Where's the other guy?" She looked apprehensively at the door he had just come through. "I thought he went to check the van…"

"He had a family emergency," Macedo lied. "His wife went into labor; they must have contacted him through his radio, if he went to the van." He smiled disarmingly. "All I know is the day super called me two hours after I went to bed and offered me double-time to get my ass down here. I usually work nights out at the prison, but he said I lived the closest, and there wasn't enough time to get someone else out here from the prison. Hell, for almost 40 bucks an hour, I'm not bitchin', ya know?"

She smiled, and indicated the door to Dr. Campbell's inner office with a toss of her head. "They're not out, yet; you made it in time." The phone rang and Macedo took a seat on the couch while the receptionist dealt with the call. As she hung up, she glanced at Macedo again and smiled; then frowned slightly. "Hey. Shouldn't you have one of those I.D. things on your shirt? The other guy always did. Had his picture."

Before he could answer the office door opened. Marshall stepped through, meeting Macedo's eyes with his own for a moment before dropping them to the floor and stretching out his hands, and he did every week, waiting for the handcuffs. Dr. Campbell stood stiffly behind him. Macedo saw that her eyes were red and puffy, and hoped the keen-eyed receptionist didn't notice. He stood and approached Penfield with the cuffs, playing up his American accent as much as he could. "Ah, crap," he moaned, glancing at the still-suspicious woman behind the desk. "I musta thrown on my uniform and run outta there so fast, I forgot it." He tried the charming smile again. "Good thing you noticed. I can make a stop at home and pick it up before I get all the way to the prison without it." He snapped the cuffs around Marshall's wrists and began to steer him toward the other door. "Man, _that_ woulda been a mess. Thanks, ma'am."

The receptionist didn't seem inclined to give up quite so easily. "Doctor," she started, but Lydia interrupted her.

"I'm sure everything's fine, Gretchen. Mr. Penfield, are you familiar with this guard?"

Marshall kept looking at the floor; mostly so that the women wouldn't see that he was fighting a smile. "Yeah. Seen him around."

Lydia gripped the edge of the open door of her office before she turned to go back inside, also avoiding looking directly at anyone. "There. You see, everything's fine. Why don't you go ahead and get some lunch, Gretchen."

The woman shrugged, and opened the bottom drawer of her desk, looking for her purse. "Sure," she said, as Macedo and Penfield marched out the door. She pulled her purse out of the drawer, pushed it shut again and stood to follow the two men down the hall. She hesitated in the open doorway. "Should I lock up?"

Lydia Campbell kept her back turned, and shook her head. "I'll take care of it. Have a good lunch, Gretchen."

"Thanks," answered her receptionist, already halfway across the hall to see if her friend Linda, Dr. Belzer's receptionist, had left yet. "See you later."

Dr. Campbell didn't really hear the last part. She was sitting on the couch in her office, where Marshall had been just a few minutes before, holding one of the decorator pillows up to her mouth, so no-one could hear her scream.

End, Chapter 20


	21. Convergence

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 21: Convergence**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**12:20 PM CS**

Lydia rose from the sofa on wobbly legs, and peeked out of her door into the outer office. Gretchen was gone – she could go. She grabbed her purse, and dabbed at her eyes, remembering at the last minute to leave her cell phone. She stepped out of her office, dropped a note on Gretchen's desk, and walked out, smoothing her hair with a shaking hand, trying to look normal, confident, as she strode down the hallway. She took the steps down to the first floor instead of the elevator – she didn't trust herself to face anyone. She was afraid the terror she felt inside was somehow visible – leaking out around the edges of the outwardly calm mask that was her face. Her heart thumping, she pushed open the door to the parking garage, made it to her Dodge Caravan, and got in and started the engine, as instructed. As she waited, visions of Gaby, her baby, played through her head. '_God, please let her be okay, please let her be okay…'_

She jerked a little as she picked up the prison van coming down the ramp from the third floor, and put the Caravan in reverse, backing out, following the van out of the garage, and trailing it to the entrance ramp for U.S. 73 North.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Macedo looked with satisfaction in the rearview mirror; the woman was following them just as planned. He could hear Penfield moving about in the rear of the van, changing into the clothes Macedo had brought. Macedo had his bags back there as well, which he had transferred from his car, and the duffle from the parking garage trash can. He would need a change of clothes himself before going to the airport. Penfield, apparently finished, called up to him through the small window in the metal wall that separated the back of the van from the driver. "So what's the plan?"

"We will drive to an empty warehouse and leave the van. The woman will transport us to her house – it is a secluded farmhouse in a remote rural area. You will watch her and the child, while I go to pick up Eppes. In a few hours, it will be done."

Penfield looked at the back of Macedo's head, and frowned. "And why are you doing this?"

Macedo's face darkened, his eyes cold. "I cannot begin to regain my status in the drug world without showing them that I account for my enemies. It is a question of credibility. To the police, Eppes' death will appear to be something else – a lover's quarrel, but through the drug circles, the word will spread that I am back, and I have dealt with those who crossed me."

Penfield felt a little shudder run down his spine, and he shot an uncertain glance at the guard's body, next to him in the back. "So how do I factor into this? Apart from helping you with the Eppes thing?" His face brightened. "I could help you set up your money laundering programming – a new program, designed from scratch that can defeat the DEA's tracking.

Macedo smiled. "We think alike, my friend." The truth was; he had no intention of working with Penfield, beyond the current afternoon. He had needed him to lure Eppes away, and he needed him to watch the woman while he picked up Eppes. He also needed it to be known that Penfield had escaped and was on the loose, because he would be framed for the murders of Doctors Eppes and Campbell. After that, the escapee would be extraneous, a liability. Macedo had plans for him, too, that would culminate with sinking him in the Missouri River, many miles from Leavenworth. He could let the man have his fun first. It would amuse him to watch Penfield deal with Eppes.

Several minutes later, they had reached the junction of 59, and pulled off behind the warehouse. Before entering the van, Macedo had donned latex gloves. The authorities would find no fingerprints in the vehicle other than the guard's and Penfield's. He instructed Penfield to grab his bag, and strode around to the back to let him out. Lydia had left the Caravan running, but had begun to step out, uncertain of what happened next. Macedo barked at her to get back in, and she scurried back into the driver's seat like a scared rabbit.

Macedo handed Penfield the small-caliber back-up piece he had removed from the guard's ankle holster, and he got in the back seat, as Macedo climbed in the front, on the passenger side. He too, was holding a pistol, the guard's Glock service revolver, and he pointed it toward Lydia. "You will drive to the farmhouse."

She stared at him in shock – he'd lost his American accent, and she realized that the guard and the man who had talked to her on the phone were the same man. Her throat clutching with fear, she threw the Caravan into gear, and left the warehouse lot, headed back toward Kerrville, and the farmhouse.

**12:45 PM CST**

Douglas and Rutherford waited impatiently in an outer room at the United States Penitentiary at Leavenworth. They'd been called back in on the search for Macedo a few days ago. When Eppes had run his search programming, he'd found the last resting place for the missing Macedo money in an account registered to a businessman in Rio, named Jorge Caleña. Last week, their CIA brothers had found that nearly a month ago, Jorge Caleña had booked a flight to Los Angeles. During the course of the week, additional digging had come up with the fact that he had rented several cars while in L.A., and then, yesterday, they'd found that about one week after he'd gotten there, he'd flown to Kansas City, and hadn't been heard from since.

The NSA had already sent men out to the prison to talk to Penfield, but the guy at the top wasn't taking any chances. Tompkins had sent them out on an early flight, to question Penfield again and see if he was involved somehow. It was hard to conceive how he might be, but it seemed too much of a coincidence, that a man they suspected of being Macedo would travel to the one part of the country where one of his known acquaintances was a prisoner. So Douglas and Rutherford were here, waiting for a guard to come and take them back to an interview room.

Douglas cast a sharp eye toward the man behind the window of the area, as a guard stepped into the room with him, and spoke, his brow knitted. He walked over to the window, Rutherford trailing. "What's the deal? Don't tell us Penfield is eating lunch – if he is, pull him out."

The guard stationed at the window was reaching for a phone with a frown. "Penfield was out for a doctor's appointment – he goes to a shrink every Tuesday. He was supposed to be back by now, but he's not here yet. I'm calling the guard assigned to his transport."

He paused, waiting with the phone to his ear, and after a moment, hung up and dialed again. He looked up at the NSA agents with the beginnings of alarm on his face, the receiver still to his ear. "He's not picking up. This is very irregular." He hung up and dialed again. "I'm calling the Leavenworth PD – I'll have them dispatch a car over to the doctor's office, just in case."

Douglas shot a look at Rutherford. "Where is this place?"

"Hold on, I'll tell you," the man said. They waited until he got off the phone with the police, and a few moments later, they were on their way to the office of Dr. Lydia Campbell.

It was around 1:15 when they got there. Two officers had already arrived and were questioning the doctor's secretary, a woman named Gretchen. Douglas and Rutherford showed their IDs, and the officers' eyebrows went up as they took in the fact that the men were NSA. They didn't remark on it, however, instead one of them said, "The secretary said the prisoner left at his usual time. We just checked back with the prison again; they still haven't gotten back."

Rutherford looked at Gretchen. "Did you notice anything unusual about the appointment?"

Gretchen twisted her hands a little nervously. The police were bad enough, but the government agents were really upping her anxiety level – especially the gruff one named Douglas. "Actually, there were a few things that were different. Usually the patient's guard stays here in the outer office with me during the appointment. Today, he got a phone call during the appointment, and left. He never came back. Instead, another guard came to pick up the patient – he said the first guard got called away on a family emergency."

The law enforcement officers exchanged a glance. Douglas turned to Gretchen. "Can you describe the second guard?"

"He was tall, maybe a little over six foot, olive complected, dark hair and eyes. Not bad-looking, really."

"Did he have an accent that you noticed?"

Her brow furrowed. "It's funny you should mention that. He sounded American, but something about it was a little off. I couldn't place it. I just figured he was from some other part of the country, maybe the East Coast."

Douglas looked at the officers. "Did you talk to the doctor yet – Dr. ?"

"Doctor Campbell," supplied Gretchen, helpfully. "That's the other odd thing – when I came back from lunch she was gone. She never goes out to lunch on Tuesdays – she usually takes a short lunch in the office and leaves just a little earlier than normal. To top it off, she left a note asking me to cancel her afternoon appointments."

Douglas frowned. "But she was still here when the guard and the prisoner left – she didn't go with them?"

Gretchen stared at him. "No – why would she do that? She went back in her office, and they left. A few minutes later, I left for lunch."

Douglas didn't answer the question. Instead he gave the others a nod, and pulled them aside, saying quietly, "If this is what it appears to be, an escape, and they didn't force her to go with them, there's a chance she's part of the escape plan. I'd say she's our best lead right now." He looked at the officers. "I suggest you guys call this in as an escape, and get your department involved. We'll work with you, but we need to get moving on this. We're going to start with Dr. Campbell, and find out where she lives. Have your chief send some investigators out there to meet us."

He stepped back over to Gretchen. "Did you try to call Dr. Campbell?"

"Yes," she said. "It went to voice mail."

Douglas nodded. "We need an address for her."

Gretchen pulled up a file on her computer, and jotted down the address. "This is right here in town. I put down her phone numbers, too, home and cell. Do you want me to keep trying her on the phone?"

Douglas shook his head. "No – but if she calls you, try to find out where she is, then call me at this number." He handed her a card, and took the information from her, looking up at Rutherford. "Let's go pay the doctor a visit."

**1:15 PM CST**

Lydia stopped the Caravan in front of the farmhouse, and got out with shaking legs. The dark-haired man motioned with the gun, and she preceded them into the house; then turned to face them. "Why are you doing this?" she asked in a trembling voice. "Where is my daughter?"

Macedo eyed her frostily, than jerked his head toward the adjacent living room. Lydia entered, and a cry broke from her at the sight of Gaby, lying motionless on the sofa. The duct tape on her face and binding her wrists and ankles was even more shocking in person, and Lydia began to strip it off, without even consciously thinking about it, and tears ran down her face. Her baby was so pale, so still…

Macedo let her remove the bindings. The child wasn't going anywhere; it was unlikely she would even survive. He watched, without emotion, as the woman gathered the child in her arms, rocking her, tears streaming down her face. "That is enough, woman," he said sharply. "Let her rest, and make us some lunch."

Penfield rubbed the back of his head, with an uncomfortable glance at the child as he followed Dr. Campbell and Macedo into the kitchen, holding his own pistol awkwardly. He wondered what was in store for her and the child; he sincerely hoped Macedo would let them go when he was done. He wouldn't mind inflicting pain on Eppes, but he drew the line at women and children.

Macedo spoke. "Where is your home computer?"

Lydia paused, wiping at her eyes with a badly shaking hand as she pulled bread from the pantry. She pointed through a second doorway. "In there."

Macedo turned to Penfield. "Watch her." Turning, he headed into a small back room that had been set up as an office, and turned on the computer. He found Lydia's file storage, and set up a folder, naming it simply "C." Then he inserted a jump drive, and loaded several files into it the new file – all of them steamy love letters with various dates, all of them signed 'Charlie.' He would load others onto Eppes' computer later, signed 'Lydia.' To anyone investigating, it would appear that the two had carried on a clandestine long-distance affair for months. Finally, using a handkerchief, he drew two more folded love letters addressed to Lydia from his coat pocket, written on paper that he'd bummed from a prison guard at the visitor's entrance, signed with Penfield's name. Using his elbow to open the computer desk drawer, he slid them inside. When the police found Eppes and Dr. Campbell, it would appear that the escapee, Penfield, had surprised them together and killed them both in a fit of jealousy, then fled the scene. With a soft grunt of satisfaction, he turned off the computer, wiped the keyboard and switch, and headed back toward the kitchen. He had time for lunch and to change into a suit before he headed for the airport.

**1:30 PM CST**

Bob Tompkins frowned and rubbed his forehead as he hung up the phone. His man Douglas had just reported in. Instead of interviewing Penfield, they were now tracking him, and a man fitting Macedo's general physical description was involved in what appeared to be an escape plot. As he pondered the implications of that, the phone rang again, and he answered to find one of his other men, Bill Peterson, on the line. Peterson had been in charge of following up the details on the trail that Jorge Caleña had left in L.A. – he'd been assigned to look for DNA in hotel rooms, and the five rental vehicles that Caleña had gone through.

"Yes, Bill, tell me you've got something."

Bill sounded discouraged. "Not a lot, I'm afraid. Apparently, the man was intent on hiding his tracks. The three hotel rooms he used had been cleaned several times before we got to them, and cars didn't give us much either. One of them had only been rented once since Caleña left L.A., but it only yielded fingerprints from the woman who rented it and the rental people. I think Caleña must have cleaned and wiped down each vehicle before he turned it in. We did find one thing, though."

"What was that?"

"We'd gotten Caleña's visa picture from the guys at immigrations, and we showed it at several car rentals in the area, just to be sure he wasn't using another alias. We got a hit at one of them. The owner remembered him, because Caleña rented the car and never returned it. He reported it to the police, but of course they couldn't track him down – the information he gave was false. Here's what's interesting. They recovered the car, and it had a dent in the left front fender. It also matched the description of the car that hit Dr. Eppes."

Tompkins swore; a muffled oath, and then fell silent for a moment, thinking. "Okay, look, Bill, get some surveillance set up again on Eppes. I know we think that Caleña's in Kansas City, but I don't want to take any chances. Just get the detail set up – I'll call Dr. Eppes myself."

Peterson signed off with a brisk affirmative, and Tompkins hung up the phone, referred to his programmed directory, and hit the number for 'Eppes, Charles, mobile.' He tapped the desk, listening with just bit of impatience, as the phone went to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message, and next tried Charlie's office. The voice mail message there told him, in Charlie's voice; that he would be out of the office for two days. Tompkins paused for a moment, considering. Did that mean Charlie was home or traveling? He dialed Charlie's home number, with same result – voice mail. If he was traveling, then where? He knew one person who could probably answer that question.

He dialed Don at his office, and the call went directly through to a receptionist. "I'm sorry, sir, Agent Eppes is out of the office for two days."

'_Two days, again_,' thought Tompkins. So it was likely the Eppes brothers were together. "Do you know how he can be reached?"

"Probably his cell phone, but I can check with Agent Reeves. Hold on, sir."

There was brief delay, and then Megan Reeves came on the line. "Yes, sir, how can I help you?"

"I'm trying to find out where Dr. Eppes is, and I'm getting messages that both he and Agent Eppes are out for two days. Do you have any idea where either of them might be?"

"Yes, sir. Don told me he was traveling with Charlie to a math conference."

Tompkins breathed a small sigh of relief. So Dr. Eppes was at least accompanied by his brother – and it was probably a good thing they were out of town. The answer to his next question quickly changed his opinion, and brought his surge of relief to an abrupt, heart-lurching halt. "Do you know where the conference is?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Kansas City." She heard a muffled exclamation, and a click. "Mr. Tompkins? Sir?" The silence turned into a dial tone, and she frowned in confusion at the receiver, and then hung up the phone, shaking her head.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

End, Chapter 21


	22. The Pick Up

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 22: The Pick-Up**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**2:50 PM CST**

Charlie waited, shifting from foot to foot, while Don filed a report at the airport office for the Department of Homeland Security. His brother's stint as an Air Marshal had been decidedly uneventful, which luckily made the report brief. They'd actually landed a few minutes early; and things were proceeding smoothly – although Charlie wasn't exactly sure he wanted them to. Now that his meeting with Penfield was imminent, his confidence was wavering. Facing the man who had tried to hand him over to Macedo and then later had tried to kill him was truly an unnerving prospect, even if he was behind bars. He fidgeted nervously as Don signed paperwork, and then trailed him out of the office, trudging beside him on the way out of the concourse, his computer bag on his shoulder.

Hector Macedo stood just outside the security checkpoint, watching the recently de-planed passengers. He held a sign in front of him, neatly lettered, 'Charles Eppes,' and as he caught sight of a familiar curly head, started to raise it higher, then suddenly jerked it down, and flipped it around to conceal the name. He'd just caught sight of another figure – not quite as familiar, but known to him nonetheless. Professor Eppes, despite his instructions, had brought his brother with him.

Macedo muttered a curse, and drifted behind the crowd of people waiting greet the passengers coming through security, thinking furiously. This was intolerable – a major setback after all of the planning. He had hoped to get Eppes into the car and well on his way to the farmhouse before he even suspected anything was amiss. Now he had the brother to deal with – a man who was bright, observant, and a crack FBI agent. He unobtrusively rolled the sign into a cylinder and put it in his jacket pocket, and fell in behind them, a good way back.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie and Don made it to the baggage carousel without incident, but there, their luck changed. Charlie's bag came through – one of the first ones off, but after several revolutions, there was no sign of Don's. Don scowled at the dwindling bags rotating in front of them. "You'd think they'd figure out how to hang on to the Air Marshal's bag," he groused.

Charlie was scanning the crowd around them with a puzzled expression, looking for their contact. "It's odd that the guy who was supposed to pick us up wasn't waiting when we got off the plane. I'm not sure where we're supposed to meet."

"He's probably running late, and it's a good thing," griped Don, his eyes on the carousel.

Charlie's expression was still doubtful, and he reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He'd turned it off on the plane, and hadn't turned it back on yet. He punched it on, saying, "Maybe he tried to call."

Hector Macedo watched intently from several yards away. He saw the professor claim a modest overnight bag, and saw his brother standing, still staring at the carousel, impatiently, as Charlie took out his phone and turned it on. Obviously, the agent's bag hadn't come through yet. The situation might just lend itself to a plan, Macedo thought, if he played it right. He turned and strode toward the parking area, and pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial.

Charlie was just about to put his cell phone back in his pocket, when it rang. He glanced at the number, and exchanged a glance with Don. "This looks like him." He spoke into the phone. "Charles Eppes."

"Dr. Eppes," replied Macedo with his best American accent, adding a nasal tone, as he stepped out of the terminal and crossed the street toward short-term parking. For this to work, he had to retrieve his car in a hurry. "I take it you have arrived?"

"Yes," Charlie said, "I'm in the baggage claim area."

"Ah, good. My name is Karl Ferguson; I am Marshall Penfield's legal representation. I'm here to drive you to meet with him, but I have an issue. The short term parking area is full, and I've pulled over at the curb. Unfortunately, security won't allow a car to remain here unmanned, so I was wondering if you could meet me here. You'll have to hurry – there is a five minute limit for loading."

The intercom was booming in the baggage area, and Charlie put a finger in his free ear, his brows drawn, trying to hear. In the back of his mind, he felt a sense of unease – something about the voice - but he couldn't place it; it was too noisy to hear it very well. He pushed it out of his mind, as he began to reply, "We have a little issue of our own. My brother's-,"

"Dr. Eppes? Dr. Eppes?" said Macedo loudly into the phone. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you – I'll try to call again, but if I don't reach you, please try to meet me at the curb. I'll be holding a sign."

"Wait – Mr. Ferguson?" Charlie looked at his cell phone display with frustration, then at Don. "The call disconnected. He's outside, waiting at the curb – he says short-term parking is full, and they'll only let him sit there for five minutes. Look, I'll run up there and tell him to drive around, make a loop or something, and come back. If you get your bag, you can meet me up there." He had picked up his bag and was starting for the doors as he spoke the last words, walking backwards.

Don was frowning. "Charlie – just wait a minute-,'

"I _will_ wait – I'll just wait for you at the curb – if I don't go now I won't catch him. I'll call you as soon as I hook up with him." Charlie was turning, shooting the last few words over his shoulder, and then he was off at trot.

Don watched him go; his brow furrowed, and then glanced back with irritation at the carousel. Something about this was rubbing him the wrong way – although it was conceivable that short-term parking was full – the airport was extremely busy, filled with summer travelers. Sighing with exasperation, he rubbed his forehead and waited.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Hector Macedo wheeled the car through short-term parking, neatly cut off a line of cars headed for the nearest exit booth, and slipped into the next slot. He paid the attendant, and was through in a moment, making a sharp left around the garage. Short-term parking was in a parking deck located directly across the street from the terminal, and it took only seconds to make it around the building to that side. Still, Eppes was already coming out of one of the terminal exits a good way down, so Macedo pulled into the first spot he could find, hoping Eppes wouldn't see him pulling up. He threw the car into park and stepped out, fishing for the rolled sign in his jacket, and made the curb just as Eppes peered in his direction. He held up the sign, and watched with satisfaction as the professor started toward him.

Charlie caught sight of the man standing with a sign far down the walk, and headed toward him. He was too far away to see the lettering on the sign, but as he drew closer, Charlie made out his name. He was sweating before he was even halfway there – Kansas City in the summertime was hot and humid, and this day was no exception; Charlie felt as though he'd stepped out into a sauna. As he approached Ferguson, a drop of sweat landed in his eye and he blinked hard, as the man extended a hand, then immediately turned and popped open the trunk as he spoke in a nasal voice. "Karl Ferguson. It was good of you to hurry, I'm sorry for that. You can put your bag in the trunk."

Again, Charlie felt something odd, a discordant flutter of anxiety, but he pushed it aside. Of course he was nervous. This man represented Penfield; and he was about to transport Charlie to a meeting he suddenly wished he'd never set up. He put his overnight and computer bags in the trunk and wiped his brow, protesting as Ferguson pushed it shut. "You should leave that open. I'm sorry, I didn't get a chance to tell you – my brother is here with me – he's in the baggage area waiting for his bag."

Ferguson/Macedo frowned. "We really should move the car – it's been ten minutes and I've already been warned once." His expression brightened. "Let's pull it down to the entrance you came out of – I bet that will buy us another five minutes." As Charlie hesitated, he said, "You might as well get in. I've got the air conditioner going. We can wait down there for him."

Charlie cast one more glance down toward the door he'd come out of and shrugged. Ferguson was already climbing into the driver's seat.

Air conditioning or not, Charlie felt he really would rather not sit in the car sooner than he had to – it was not as if he was chummy with the man. After all, the lawyer was the means of carrying out the threat of a prosecuting a case against his brother. He really didn't have a good excuse not to get in, though, Charlie thought with a sigh. Pulling the car down further would actually save Don a walk down the humid sidewalk. He got in the front passenger seat reluctantly and shut the door, with a stiff polite smile at the lawyer.

Macedo flipped the master lock on the door, locking all of the vehicle doors, careful to do it just as he put the car into drive, so the sound of the locks closing would seem to be part of the car's normal operation. He gave his passenger a smile, and pulled away from the curb.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Just a few minutes after Charlie had gone Don finally spotted his bag. He pulled out his cell phone as he walked around the carousel to head it off, and turned on the phone, intending to call Charlie and tell him he was on his way up. His message indicator beeped as he picked up his bag and headed toward the exit, and as he looked at the unfamiliar number, he frowned. He fumbled with the phone one-handed as he walked, trying to switch screens to dial Charlie, but he accidentally hit "Listen" instead, and shook his head in mild frustration. He might as well listen to the message, he thought with resignation; Charlie was waiting for him anyway. His expression changed to one of surprise as he heard Tompkins on his voice mail, and then to panic as he listened to his message. A moment later, the cell phone was hastily stuffed into a pocket, his bag was lying on the floor, and his now-free hand was reaching in his jacket for his service weapon as he sprinted out the exit doors

**3:10 PM CST**

Charlie glanced at the dashboard clock as the car cruised toward the far exit. It was shortly after 3:00 PM, which was 1:00 PM L.A. time, well past lunch. The last thing Charlie wanted right now was food, but he was sure Don would be hungry. He'd ask Ferguson to stop on the way to the prison. His eyes were fixed on the exit door, and his thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he saw his brother dashing out of them. "There he is," Charlie said, pointing, wondering as he did so why Don felt it necessary to run. He'd told him he'd wait for him.

The car was accelerating instead of slowing, and Charlie whipped his head toward Ferguson, his annoyed expression turning to fear and disbelief, as he took in the pistol leveled at him. His eyes rose to meet Ferguson's; it was the first time the man had looked him directly in the eye, and Charlie felt a shock of recognition, as the man spoke. He had dropped the nasal tone and the American accent, and the voice and the eyes combined told Charlie who he was, in spite of the facial changes. Macedo looked at him coldly. "Sit still, Dr. Eppes."

Charlie ignored him, turning and fumbling frantically with the door latch, which refused to cooperate. His heart pounding, he looked desperately out the window, just as the vehicle passed the exit.

Don had stopped, his head turning from side to side, searching for Charlie, his service weapon in hand, and as the car passed by, he caught a glimpse of Charlie's face, pale, wide-eyed, and frightened, in the passenger side window. He began to sprint toward it, his attention captured so completely he didn't see the security guard coming from the side. He took the impact with a grunt of surprise and pain, and landed on the sidewalk with the beefy guard on top of him. "Get off me, you idiot! I'm a federal agent!"

"Hand over the gun, and let me see your ID," the man snarled back, and Don shoved his service weapon at him and scrambled to his feet, pulling out the ID and thrusting it at him even as he stumbled toward the curb. The car was disappearing around the far bend, and he hadn't even gotten a plate number.

"You just let a kidnapping go down, you moron!" shouted Don, as the guard, now white-faced, handed him back his service weapon. "I need the number for the Kansas City police!"

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie stared in shock as he saw Don go down, leveled by a bull of a man in a security uniform, and then pulled again frantically at the door handle, his eyes dropping to the door itself, searching for the unlock button. He hit it, and pulled the handle. Nothing. He tried the window button. Still nothing.

"Dr. Eppes, compose yourself," came the cold voice from beside him, and Charlie looked at Macedo with a pounding heart.

The Colombian was driving, one-handed, his other hand still holding the Glock. He had a slight smile on his face. "I have the master locks engaged. Do not think of trying to fight me and do not attract attention. I do not wish to shoot you, but I will if you insist on causing trouble." The last statement was the truth, at least for now. He would shoot Eppes in the vehicle if he had to, but he would much prefer to dispatch him at the farmhouse. He decided to add to the professor's incentive with a lie. "One of my men is watching your brother. He is armed. All I have to do is give him the word, and he will shoot him. It is in your best interest to sit still, and do as you are told." He pushed the button for Charlie's window, lowering it an inch. "Throw your cell phone out the window."

Charlie slowly lowered his hand from the door handle, and carefully righted himself in the seat, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He felt his throat tighten as it slipped from his fingers through the crack, and as the window closed again, he spoke, trying to keep his voice steady. "What do you want with me?"

"What does anyone ever want with you, Dr. Eppes?" asked Macedo softly, with an icy smile. "Your brain." In this case, all Macedo really wanted was that brain splattered on the wall of a barn, but he wasn't telling Eppes that. Not yet, anyway.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 22


	23. How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm?

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****23: How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down on the Farm? **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

…………………………………………………………………………………………

**3:35 PM CST **

Don flipped his cell phone shut, steering the rental car one-handed as he turned into the quiet development. He'd just finished talking with the Leavenworth police for the second time, who had directed him to the residence of a Dr. Lydia Campbell. They'd filled him in on the Penfield escape, and her suspected involvement with it. They'd also told him that, upon arriving there to look for her, they'd found her husband, dead, gutted and stabbed. Dr. Campbell was their only lead as to Penfield's whereabouts, and the police were still at the scene looking for clues. At Don's insistence all of this was connected to Charlie's abduction, they'd put an APB out for the dark sedan and an Amber alert for his brother.

In his first call to them, he'd had no luck convincing them the cases were related, but after a phone call to Tompkins, who subsequently personally called the Leavenworth police chief, Don had all the cooperation he wanted. The problem was; they had precious little to give him. They had a dead man, and nothing else. No Lydia Campbell or her daughter, no Penfield, no Macedo, no Charlie. No one had any clue as to where they might be.

He had no trouble finding the house. Police cars clogged the street, and crime scene tape festooned the front of the modest, neat, three-bedroom home. He pulled his rental vehicle over to the edge of the garish circus, and strode across the lawn, pulling out his badge.

"Eppes!"

A familiar voice stopped him in his tracks, and he turned. Douglas and Rutherford were hurrying toward him, with puzzled looks. Douglas planted himself in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

"You haven't talked to your boss, I take it."

Douglas frowned, taking in Eppes' pale face, the strained expression. "No. What's going on?"

"Charlie was just abducted, less than an hour ago. We'd just landed at the airport."

They stared back at him, and Rutherford found his voice first. "What were you guys doing here?"

Don's face was grim. "It was obviously a set-up. Penfield called Charlie last week, and told him he wanted to meet with him, or he was going to make good on a lawsuit threat. He told Charlie to come by himself, but Charlie let me in on it, and I came along. A lot of good it did him." Don's voice was bitter. "Penfield sent someone to pick Charlie up, supposedly to bring Charlie to meet him at the prison. Charlie went to meet him at the curb while I was getting my baggage, and the man got him into the vehicle – either by a ruse or by threatening him, I'm not sure which. I got out there just as they drove away."

"A man," repeated Douglas. "You saw him? Was it Penfield?"

Don shook his head. "Not clearly, but I don't think so. I don't think Charlie would have gotten into a car with Marshall Penfield, even if he was threatened. I think the man was posing as Charlie's ride."

"Caleña," said Rutherford. "Last week, we found out he flew from Rio to L.A. about a month ago, stayed there for a week; and then came out here."

Don's eyes narrowed. "That's the name Charlie found linked to the Macedo money."

Douglas nodded. "Dr. de la Cruz was right – the DNA evidence out of Colombia told us Macedo is still alive, and we think he and Caleña might be one and the same."

Don stared at them. "Tompkins told me that you suspected that Macedo was here, and that Penfield had escaped. He didn't say anything about DNA evidence –," he stopped abruptly and his face darkened. "That means you guys knew about this weeks ago, and you didn't let us in on it?"

Douglas didn't have much practice at looking contrite, but he did now. "We didn't think he was after Dr. Eppes – Caleña had already left L.A. for Kansas City– long before we found out most of this." His phone rang, and he answered it hastily, grateful for the interruption, and uncomfortably aware of the glare that the FBI agent was fixing on him. "Tompkins," he mouthed, and stepped away. "Yes, sir, I do now – Agent Eppes just showed up. No, sir…"

Don transferred his glare to Rutherford, and the sweat that was pouring off the NSA agent from the humid air increased to a veritable torrent. He shifted uncomfortably, as Don turned on his heel and strode into the house.

The sight inside did nothing to alleviate Don's anxiety. The stabbing was brutal; the man had been gutted, and the knife stuck in his chest. Don seriously doubted a woman would have been able to inflict such damage, unless she was exceptionally strong. He drifted through the house, wandering through the rooms. Something was eating at him, but he couldn't figure out what it was until he got to what appeared to be the master bedroom. It was completely masculine – no sign of anything feminine. He opened the closet doors and moved into the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet. No women's clothes, no female toiletries. One thing was certain; Dr. Lydia Campbell did not live here. His brow furrowed with perplexity, he stepped out of the house, and stood on the step, suddenly at a loss. They had nothing to go on, and Charlie was in the hands of two men who hated him – who wanted revenge.

A Leavenworth police officer was interviewing a neighbor on the lawn, and Don listened to their conversation absently, his mind churning. The neighbor hadn't seen anyone or anything unusual that morning, and seemed more interested in gossip. "…oh, Lydia was extremely unhappy," he heard the woman say. "She and her husband may not have been divorced, but they were separated. She brought Gaby here to visit on Tuesdays, but she was living out at her sister's farm. Her sister is the famous author, you know, Maizey Somers, she –,"

Don nearly leapt off the front steps, just barely refraining from grabbing the startled woman's arm. "Farmhouse – do you know where it is?"

She stared back at him, gaping. "It's over the Missouri line, up near Kerrville – I'm sure if you look up Maizey Somers you'll get the exact address." She watched, still staring, as the man ran across the lawn to the police officer in charge, wondering if she'd just contributed something important. She turned back to the officer, but he'd made his way around her and over to the group gathering on the front lawn. Her chest puffed with pride, and she preened a little. Boy, this was going to make for some great gossip at her next book club meeting. _She_ was an important part of a murder investigation. She couldn't wait to rub it in Peggy Smithfield's face

**3:45 PM CST**

Charlie watched the corn fields flit by under intense blue skies. Heat was shimmering off the highway in waves. By the highway signs, Charlie knew they were in western Missouri; it was a beautiful, sunny day – at least it was beautiful if you had air conditioning – and hadn't just been kidnapped by a Colombian drug lord.

He sat quietly, conserving his strength. There was no good way to escape at the present, and he wanted to be sure that Don had left the airport area before he tried anything. Visions of Macedo's man, lurking near an unsuspecting Don, kept rolling through his brain, sending shudders down his spine. He wondered what Don was doing – if he'd called the police, he might be at the airport, giving them information – and still in view of Macedo's man. It had only been a little over a half hour since they'd left the airport, and there was a good chance Don could still be there.

His eyes turned forward and to the left as the vehicle slowed, and Macedo turned the car down a gravel drive. A restored farmhouse, nearly a century old from the looks of it, sat well back from the road, by at least two hundred yards. A green lawn stretched in front and trees shaded it, including a huge beautiful willow set slightly to the left. The yard was wide, but was flanked on either side by fields of corn, already seven feet tall. To the back of the house, by about 50 yards, offset slightly to the right, was a restored barn, and near it a small garage. The peaceful bucolic setting was the last place one would expect to find a murderous drug lord.

Or an escaped convict. Charlie felt his heart rate increase as he watched Marshall Penfield step out of the house, carrying a pistol. He shouldn't have been surprised – after all, Penfield was the one who lured him out here; he was obviously part of the plot, but his presence was ominous. Macedo had apparently managed to spring him from prison. The drug lord seemed invincible, unstoppable, returning from the dead, and apparently able to get exactly what he wanted.

Penfield stepped up to the passenger side door, as Macedo opened his and hit the master lock, with a curt, "Get out."

Charlie opened the door, and got out slowly. Penfield didn't step back; instead, he remained standing uncomfortably close, and sneered down into Charlie's face. "Hello, Eppsie. How nice of you to visit."

Charlie looked back at him resolutely, with a hint of defiance. "I should have known better than to think you could have figured your way out of a paper bag, much less solved the Hodge conjecture."

Penfield's face darkened; and he grabbed Charlie's arm and pushed him roughly toward the house, pushing the barrel of the pistol between his shoulder blades. "We'll see how smart your mouth is before this over."

"I am going to put the car in the garage. You had the woman make room, correct?" said Macedo.

Penfield paused, jerking Charlie to a stop. "Yes. She pulled her sister's car out. Where do you want him?"

"In the house for now. We will move him to the barn shortly." Penfield nodded, and pushed Charlie toward the house again. Charlie glanced from side to side as he went, weighing the possibility of escape. It was slim – Penfield was too close – the cornfields on either side were several yards away. He had no doubt he would draw a bullet if he tried to run, at least at the current time. Maybe later…

He stepped through the entrance onto a refinished hardwood floor. A woman stood in the doorway of what appeared to be a living room. She was petite, pretty, with honey colored hair and blue-green eyes, which were rimmed with red from crying. She looked terrified, and Charlie's heart sank. It was bad enough he was in this situation, but now they'd dragged an innocent woman into it, as well. It only got worse; as Penfield ushered Charlie toward her, she stepped backwards into the living room, and Charlie caught sight of the toddler on the sofa. '_Oh, God_," he thought to himself, '_please don't let them hurt these people_.'

The woman was trembling, hovering between them and the toddler, who seemed oddly undisturbed by their presence. She was pale, her breathing shallow, and Charlie wondered if she'd been drugged. "Sit," ordered Penfield, brandishing a pistol, and he pushed Charlie toward a chair. The woman sank onto the edge of the sofa, next to her child. She was obviously frightened beyond measure, but Charlie could see in her eyes the desperate will to protect her little girl, even if it meant her own life.

Lydia tried to keep her legs from trembling, as she took in the young man across from her. His face was composed, but it was pale, and she could read the fear in his expressive dark eyes. In spite of her own predicament, her heart went out to him. She wondered who he was, and how many more people would be involved in this scheme before it was over. '_Just don't hurt my baby…_'

"So, doctor," sneered Penfield and both heads turned toward him. The two prisoners exchanged a glance, as Penfield continued, directing his remarks at Lydia. "Analyze this. What do you think is driving my behavior, now?" He smirked, and turned his gaze on Charlie. "Revenge, maybe?" His eyes turned ugly with hatred. "I've been dreaming of this day, Eppes – every day in that hellhole. I can't wait to make you pay."

He cut off his remarks as Macedo entered the room, but his eyes remained fixed on Charlie, his gaze filled with poison. Charlie shot a glance at Lydia – so she was a doctor – a psychiatrist, by the sound of it. He wondered why they had pulled her into this.

Macedo set down two bags, which Charlie recognized as his computer case and his overnight bag, and unzipped a smaller black case, holding it out to Penfield. "Take out the syringe and the vial on top."

Penfield looked at him questioningly, but did as Macedo commanded. "What are these for?"

Macedo zipped the small case back up and unzipped the computer case, careful not to touch the computer itself. "We will drug him first. It will make him easier to handle." He watched Penfield's reaction out of the corner of his eye, and fought down a smile at the expression of disappointment. Actually, Macedo had no intention of drugging Eppes. He simply needed Penfield's fingerprints on the syringe, to make it look like Penfield had drugged the girl - it was part of the set-up. He would place it in a spot near the girl later.

Marshall scowled. "Can't we wait for that?" He looked at Charlie with a malicious smile. "I'd much prefer that he knows what's happening to him."

Macedo shrugged. Really, this was too easy – Penfield was entirely too predictable. "As you wish. Just put them back in the case, then." Penfield put the vial and the syringe back in the small case, and Macedo opened the computer case. Unlike the computer in the other room, this one would have a security screen requiring a password. He held it out to Charlie. "Take the computer out and type in your password."

Charlie looked at him, stalling. He had several files on his laptop that shouldn't be made public knowledge, much less be given to Macedo. "There is confidential information on it."

Macedo shrugged. "I do not wish to see it. Delete it, if you wish. I assume you have a personal file on it – open that." He jerked his head toward Lydia and her daughter. "You will comply, or I will shoot them."

Charlie shot the doctor and her daughter a glance, then pulled his computer out of the case, typing in his password. His hands were unsteady, and it took two attempts, but then he was past the login screen. He opened a file he used to store personal items, such as letters and articles, and paused. "I'm in."

"Create a file; label it 'L,' commanded Macedo, and he inserted his jump drive into the side of the computer. "There is a file with a similar name on the jump drive. Copy the files in it into your file."

Charlie hesitated. "What are they?"

Macedo scowled. "That is not your affair. You will do it, or I will make them pay. When you are finished, logout, turn off the computer and put it in your case." He moved next Charlie so he could observe, and gave a nod of satisfaction as Charlie finished. Macedo pulled the jump drive out and waited as Charlie put his laptop back in the case. He could see bewilderment in the professor's eyes, along with the fear, and he smiled, and looked at Penfield. "We will take him to the barn now." He turned to look at Lydia. "We will be occupied in the barn for a while. We will take your daughter there with us as insurance. You will remain in the house. If for some reason there are visitors, you will pretend you came home, not feeling well, and you will send them away. If you cooperate, your daughter will not be harmed. If we feel you have contacted anyone, or directed anyone toward us or the barn, we will kill her. Do you understand?"

Lydia nodded; her voice shaky. "Yes. I'll cooperate. Just please don't hurt her."

"Good. Then is one more thing you will do. Stand up." Macedo looked at Charlie. "You, also." Charlie stood, and Macedo picked up the computer case and stepped back. "You will kiss her."

Both of them turned startled eyes on him, and Macedo strode forward, pulling his pistol out of his jacket, and pointed it at Gaby. "Do as I say!" he barked, and Lydia started, and then took a trembling step toward Charlie.

It was the last thing Charlie would have expected, and he couldn't begin to comprehend the reason for it, but Lydia was looking at him pleadingly, and he stepped toward her, until they were standing, nearly touching. She looked up to see his dark eyes, filled with pain and compassion. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he bent forward and kissed her softly, chastely on the mouth, then straightened.

"That is not good enough," snapped Macedo. "You will kiss like lovers."

Charlie looked back at her, agonized, and she whispered softly back, her own eyes filled with pain. "It's okay. Don't make him angry."

Charlie shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, and he put a gentle hand to her head and kissed her, gently, and then more deeply, as she parted her lips. He straightened, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, and shot a dark glance at Macedo. "Are you satisfied?"

Macedo nodded, with a cold smile. "It will do." He put his pistol back in his jacket, picked up the computer case and the overnight bag, and walking over to the doorway, set them down, then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped them thoroughly.

Penfield still had his pistol leveled on the captives, and he backed up to the doorway, and spoke softly to Macedo, puzzlement on his face. "What was all that about?"

Macedo shrugged, murmuring, "I have loaded letters onto their computers, to make it appear they are lovers. When the authorities find their bodies, they will hopefully be smart enough to take bodily fluid samples. If they do, they will find their DNA on each other's lips – it will be obvious that they kissed. It is a simple way to reinforce the story."

Understanding dawned on Penfield's face. He murmured back, "It will look as though they fought, and killed each other."

Macedo nodded. "Something like that." Actually, it would look as though Penfield found them and killed them, but he was not about let Marshall know that - yet. He straightened and looked across the room at Charlie, raising his voice. "It is time. I will carry the girl. Take Dr. Eppes to the barn."

Charlie shot a last glance at Lydia, who had knelt and was kissing her daughter's pale cheek, with tears streaming down her face. Their kiss had reminded him of Amita, and the fact that these men had been responsible for her death. They were now subjecting yet other innocents to their cruelty, and in the midst of his fear, he felt a flash of anger. Penfield motioned him forward with the pistol, and he hardened his jaw and walked out, past Macedo, past his computer case.

The fact that they were taking him out to the barn, instead of sitting him in front of his computer, wasn't lost on him. He was aware now that Macedo had no intention of using him – he was here for one thing only. He thought briefly of running, but he knew that not only was it futile, it would probably bring Macedo's wrath down on the doctor and her daughter. His heart rate accelerated as they walked across the soft grass toward the barn. As it loomed overhead, it suddenly seemed sinister, threatening. He knew as he walked in, that he wouldn't be walking out again.

End Chapter 23


	24. Gut Instincts

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 24: Gut Instincts**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

…………………………………………………………………………………………

**3:45 PM CST**

Don stalked around the front of the patrol car, clenching his fists at his sides. He didn't care how high up in the Leavenworth PD this jerk was – it just made him _'Lieutenant Asshole'_, as far as he was concerned. He let his enraged voice cover the distance between them, as well as quite a bit more. "You're _wrong!_ This is a legitimate lead, and you want to send everybody off in a different direction, in some kind of wild goose chase?"

Lt. Henderson – a/k/a _'Lieutenant Asshole'_ – frowned at the approaching fed and yelled right back. "If you take that gossip-monger seriously for one millisecond, _Agent_, that's a good indication of your worthlessness in this investigation! Everybody in this town knows Clarabelle Snodgrass keeps her own _Peyton Place _goin' in her head; you can't believe a word she says." Don had stopped directly in front of him, and Henderson snorted right in his face. "F.B.I. presence has not been requested and you are an uninvited guest here. A guest that is impeding our investigation," he added, leaning his red face toward Don a little and raising his voice again. "While we stand here _ARGUING_ about some _HAIRBRAINED IDEA_ you've got _STUCK_ in your surfer-boy _HEAD_, those three are getting' _FURTHER_ and _FURTHER_ away!"

Don raised one shaking hand to poke a furious index finger in Henderson's chest. "Listen, you sniveling little son of a…."

"HEY!" Douglas's voice boomed over Don's words as the NSA Agent forced his body between the two men. He was taller than both of them and imposing enough to cause them each to step back a step. "What the hell's going on here?" He had been looking back-and-forth between the two, but now he shot Henderson a particularly hateful glare. "What kind of 'interdepartmental cooperation' is this?"

"I agreed to work with the NSA," Henderson answered petulantly. "This guy's got no business here. He's slowing us down."

Don tried to push past Douglas and found that he could not. "He's ignoring a lead," he finally tattled to the NSA agent. "The woman could be out on a farm about 40 miles from here. This hillbilly piece of shit won't even send a unit to check it out!"

Henderson growled, and started trying to push past Douglas from the other side. "You sanctimonious, arrogant…" He kept his eyes on Don but directed his next words to Douglas. "There is no lead. He's listening to the town gossip, and fighting with me, while the good doctor prances with her prisoner boyfriend right out of my jurisdiction."

Douglas sighed, and turned slightly toward Don. "Look, Eppes, you don't know your way around here any more than we do. To a certain extent we have to listen to the local law enforcement."

Before Don could sputter out his response, a sandy-haired patrolman with the Leavenworth PD pushed past a wide-eyed Rutherford. "Loo!" he said breathlessly, nearly vibrating with excitement. "Loo, the Staties just called it in! Highway patrol found the prison van, behind an empty warehouse halfway to Atchison, at the 59 junction!" The young patrolman was having the most exciting shift of his six-month career, and he smiled widely as if delivering good news. "There's another set of tracks, Loo. Looks like they switched to another vehicle!"

Henderson swore and shot Don a venomous look. "Do you see what you've done now? Obviously the woman was waiting for them. They're probably out of the state by now!"

Douglas passed his hand over his face and then looked at Don. He even managed to dredge up some sympathy from somewhere when he spoke. "It looks like he's right, Eppes; she was in on it, and they're hightailin' it out of the state. Where's this farm supposed to be?"

"Kerrville," Don responded woodenly.

Henderson snorted. "Damn. That's East of here, in Missouri; Atchison is up North; they're heading for Nebraska!"

Douglas stood with his hands on his hips, gazing at Bill Campbell's house in the background. "I've gotta go with the locals on this," he finally said with a shrug. "NSA resources are following the trail up toward Atchison." He turned to leave, barking at Rutherford to call in State Police from Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska and Iowa; then he glanced back at Don a trifle apologetically. "You want to ride with us?"

Henderson had split in the other direction, gathering his own troops, and now Don found himself virtually alone in the hot Midwest sun. He felt friendless, a man without a country; and wished with all his soul that his team was backing him up. He'd made his name _'Mud'_ with the locals, and he wasn't all that fond of Douglas and Rutherford, either. Still, they could keep him in the loop. "Yeah," he answered dejectedly, deciding to reclaim his rental later, trudging behind the NSA agents toward their dark sedan.

The closer he got to the vehicle, the harder Don found it to breathe. At first he thought it was the oppressive, humid heat finally catching up with him. By the time he had opened the rear door of the car, he knew it was something else. It was his gut. Every instinct he had honed over years in law enforcement was telling him this was wrong.

Plus, there was something else. It wasn't just 'cop instinct' that pulled at him; it was something cultivated both more recently, and longer ago. It was his connection to Charlie. His gut was talking, and his heart was talking. Don had learned the hard way how to trust both of them, and he suddenly slammed the door and turned to look for his rental. "I changed my mind," he informed a startled Douglas as he spotted the car and started toward it. "I'm checking out the farm. I'll catch up with you later."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The child stirred in Macedo's arm during the trek out to the barn, crying out weakly. He swore under his breath and shifted the bundle. He was trailing the parade, and now he called up to Marshall. "The child is waking. It was a mistake to settle for the sleeping pill; I should have used something stronger." He carried her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "No matter. She has served her usefulness. I will break her neck in the barn."

Charlie whirled around to look at Macedo, eyes wide and horrified, not registering Penfield's expletive and the ominous sound of the small Derringer's hammer being pulled back. "No! God, no! You- you can't!" He had stopped walking and began to beg as Macedo approached. "Please, she's just a baby. She can never identify you." He turned his head toward Marshall, standing beside him, still ignoring the gun. "Marshall, don't let him do this. Kill me if it makes you feel better; you can't be part of killing a child, Marshall. I know you, and _you can't_."

Even though a large part of him agreed with Charlie's assessment, Marshall sneered and raised the hand holding the Derringer so that the gun was directly pointed at Charlie's head. From less than a foot away, even the small-caliber gun would do enough damage. "You don't know me, Eppsie," he began, but Macedo was now next to them in the yard and interrupted.

"Idiot. Do not shoot him here," he ordered, glancing around. "There are no close neighbors, but there could be men out working in their fields. The risk of such a sound outside is too great. You are a fool."

Penfield bristled even as he lowered the gun. "_I'm_ a fool? Which one of us is the genius who wants to kill a baby? What's wrong, Hector, are you afraid the cops won't look hard enough for an escaped prisoner and an accomplice suspected of killing four people?" He snorted. "If Leavenworth taught me anything, it's that baby killers are on the bottom of the pile. You kill that kid and retired cops will join back up just so they can hunt us down!"

Macedo's eyes narrowed in rage, but he knew Marshall was right, even though he got the count wrong. By the time Hector was done here, there would be three more bodies to add to the two he had started with – and Penfield would be one of them. Still, the death of the child might unravel his plan. No doubt Penfield's feelings regarding child killers were well-known in prison; which could lead to the conclusion that Penfield had not been the one to kill the child, even with his prints on the vial. He needed time to weigh the risks.

The girl had settled again; Macedo could feel her hot breath on his neck as he glanced around once more. He let his gaze rest for a moment on the maroon Caravan parked on one side of the barn. Finally he looked back at Penfield. "Take him to the barn and wait for me. I will lock the child in the van. If anyone finds her in time – they can have her."

Marshall had read the look in Macedo's eyes, and so he wisely said nothing in response, instead using his gun to gesture wildly in the air. "You heard the man," he grinned at Charlie. "After you."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

**1:45 PM PST**

Now that he knew one of his sons was in love with the woman, Alan subjected the fine doctor to quite an appraisal. She was gracious and friendly enough, when Alan had called her earlier to make sure she had arrived and was settled in her hotel. He had offered to drive her out to UCLA Medical Center, and at first she demurred. "That is not necessary, Mr. Eppes. My appointment with the Medical Director is not until later this afternoon. I will just take a taxi."

Alan had insisted. "Nonsense, dear. My son asked me to take care of you, and I try to make it a habit to not argue with federal agents. And please, call me Alan, Dr. de la Cruz."

Ana had laughed shyly. Alan was a virtual stranger to her – she had only spent a few minutes with him at the safe house – but it was easy to see where Don got his charm. "Very well, Alan. Please return the favor, and call me Ana." She could hear the smile in his voice as he agreed and smiled herself. The tug of sudden longing took her by surprise. During their evening phone conversations, Don had spoken of both his father and his brother. His love for both of them was apparent, and immense, and incredibly…hot. Further, his respect and deference for Alan had, on more than one occasion, caused her to miss again her own father, after all these years. How she hoped to become part of this family; how she prayed…. "Perhaps you would care to join me for lunch here at the hotel?" she had heard herself asking.

Alan had not hesitated. "Excellent idea, Ana. And after lunch, I will drive you to UCLA." She had laughed again, deciding that there was not much future in arguing with Alan Eppes; unbeknownst to her, she had just conquered Rule No. 1.

So things had started out pleasantly enough. The phone call was followed by a pleasant meeting in the lobby of the hotel. Alan had smiled brightly and kissed her delicately on the cheek, and she had felt…treasured. It made her ache for Don, and somewhat embarrassed her, but the overriding emotion was one of hope. Coming back to America had been a good decision. She could start over, here, in L.A. She would finally be part of a family.

Yet after the brief walk to the restaurant and companionable small talk while perusing the menus and ordering, something seemed to change. Ana kept checking her watch nervously. Sometimes she would absently twirl a strand of her long, dark hair in a practice oddly reminiscent of a preoccupied Charlie. She drained her water glass three times, and only picked at her lunch after the food was delivered. She began to experience difficulty keeping up her end of the conversation, often missing questions entirely.

Alan found the change disturbing on two levels. First, of course, he had hoped that things would go well for Don's sake. He wanted Ana to be happy in Los Angeles, and happy with his son; he wanted to like her, for Don. He had discovered halfway through their earlier phone conversation that he liked her for herself, however, and that was the secondary problem. He thought she was a lovely young woman with a tragic past who had risen above it and deserved happiness – and she didn't seem very happy, right now. Alan hadn't heard the low laughter, or seen the telltale dimple in her left cheek, for quite some time, and it bothered him.

He chewed thoughtfully on a bite of steak, chased it with water, and then took the plunge. "Ana, is something wrong? You seem a bit – distracted."

She blushed endearingly and looked at him with chagrin. "Oh! Please forgive me Alan. I so appreciate your taking the time to help me, this afternoon. I do not mean to offend you."

Her hand strayed toward her hair again, but Alan reached across the table and stayed it with his own. "I'm not offended, dear, I'm just concerned. Perhaps it's jet-lag. I should have let you relax before your appointment."

She laid her free hand gently on top of his, sandwiching his hand between hers, and shook her head. "No, no, it is not that. I arrived early this morning and had several hours of rest before you phoned." Her blush deepened, and she dropped her eyes in embarrassment. "It's silly, I know… ridiculous…" Quietly she withdrew her hands from the table and dropped them in her lap, leaning back in her chair a little.

Alan frowned, continuing to lean over the table. "What?"

She glanced up. "I am sorry. I just…I feel… I am experiencing a bad premonition, about…"

Alan's eyes suddenly flashed wide and he interrupted. "So am I," he whispered. "I've been feeling it for the last hour. I thought it was just because I know they've landed, and they haven't called yet."

Now Ana's eyes widened and she looked at Alan in shock. "You also feel that Don is in…some distress?"

Alan nodded, and paled. "Not just Donnie. Both of my sons." He swallowed thickly and looked away for a moment, then looked back at attempted a smile. "But you're right, I'm sure it's just silly. We're being foolish, right?"

Ana felt a chill shoot up her spine and shivered. Still, she wrapped her arms around herself and gamely attempted a smile herself. "Right. I'm sure they'll call soon, and we'll see how foolish we are."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 24


	25. Hand to Hand Combat

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 25: Hand-to-Hand Combat**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Lydia stood at the kitchen window; arms wrapped around her middle, and watched the procession toward the barn. She saw Gaby stir in the dark-haired captor's arms, and she leaned forward a little and put her hand on the glass. "Baby," she whispered, tears of relief coursing down her cheeks. She was waking up, she wasn't dead!

The doctor wished she could hear what the men were saying when they stopped walking about halfway to the barn and had some sort of yelling match in the driveway. After a few minutes, the one holding Gaby split off from the other two. Her patient continued to force the hostage toward the barn, and the other one took Gaby toward the Dodge Caravan she had parked in its shadow. She frowned, confused, and kept watching the one carrying her life in his hands. He opened the van and laid the little girl on one of the seats, then quickly locked all the doors and backed out, slamming the door and trapping Gaby inside. Lydia didn't know what to feel. She was at once almost boneless with relief that the girl was not going into the barn; whatever was planned for that destination would surely not be good. Yet she was also apprehensive that her baby was locked in a car in the heat of the Missouri afternoon, miles from civilization. Even if whatever he had given the girl was wearing off, she would die if left in the closed van for very long. She stepped back from the window quickly when the man glanced back at the house, but she still clearly saw him hurry into the barn after the other two. She counted to thirty, and then raced to the small room Maizey used as an office.

She sat at the desk and brought the desktop computer out of 'sleep' mode, moving the mouse over the AOL logo and right-clicking. She jiggled her knee impatiently, silently cursing the antiquated dial-up modem they were forced to use out here in the boonies. Maizey was always complaining that her internet connection was unreliable. It was unavailable half the time and slower than molasses when she did get a connection. Lydia swore as an unexpected window popped up: "Detect no dial tone." Either today was one of the days there was no dial-up, or, which was more likely given the circumstances, someone had cut the phone lines.

Giving up, she instead opened and saved a new Word document directly to the desktop, using the day's date for the file name. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, nervousness and speed combining to riddle the document with typing errors:

_My name is Dr. Lydia Campbell. Today, July 14, my daughter and I were kidnaped by Marshall Penfeld, who used us to facilitatr an escape from Leavenworth Pen. He hass an accomplice; I have heard him use the name 'Hector'. Thiss man loaded somethin on this computer, I don't know what or why. He killed my husband, Bill Campbell, at his house in Leavenworth. They have another hostage. He is slight, with dark curly hair. I heard Marshall call him "Epsy". I am writing this to let you know what happened to my husband, my daughter and myself. As I write, my child is in a semi-conscious state but locked in the Dodge Caravan outside. Please if you r reading this, try to save her. If she lives, I hereby leave my entire estate to my daughter Gabrielle. I ak my sister Maizey Somers to be hr gardian._

_Lydia Campbell_

Quickly, she closed the document and jerked open drawers of the desk, finally finding what she was looking for. Maizey was hopelessly old-fashioned. For her, a computer at all was a concession; this one was so baseline, floppies were the main form of back-up. The machine accepted flash drives, as Macedo had demonstrated, but Maizey ignored that capability and stayed with her first love. Fingers shaking, Lydia jammed one in the drive and copied her document. Seconds later, she ejected the disk and dropped it back into the drawer. She left the original document on the desktop and jumped up, waiting for the machine to return to 'sleep'.

She wanted to pace frantically, but carefully shut all the desk drawers first. As she placed her hand on the bottom drawer, the one full of the 3 x 5 cards Maizey used to plot her novels, an idea seized her. Lydia grabbed a handful of cards and sat back down.

Breathing so shallowly and rapidly that she was beginning to become dizzy, she searched the surface of the desk until she found a pencil. Then she scribbled on the first card in the stack. Glancing over her shoulder often, listening for signs that the men were returning to the house, Lydia worked her way through several cards. When she was finished, she stood again and pushed the chair into position under the desk, noting with relief that the computer's fishbowl screen saver had activated and was obscuring everything on the desktop. Hurriedly, she gathered the cards and ran back into the kitchen, to look out the window at the Dodge Caravan.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The only animals on the farm were several feral cats that lived in the barn and an old dog who was too tired to be bothered with them. Most of the time he just found a shady place on the property where he could sleep. This afternoon, after his unexpected mid-day kibble break, he had trotted into the corn and chased blackbirds for a while before, tummy full; he had dropped into an exhausted heap almost a mile from home.

The barn contained surprisingly little. The previous owner had kept cows, but Maizey used the barn mostly for storage, and the four stalls were empty. The writer tried to utilize humane traps several times a year to capture the cats and have them neutered before she released them again, and those were crowded in one corner. Without fail, though, one or two got by her, so she kept a few bales of straw around, both to provide warm shelter in the cold winters, and so she could pitchfork some straw onto the floor of one of the empty stalls, when it looked like a cat was about to pop a litter. A riding lawn mower was parked facing the door, and several garden tools hung on nails on the walls. A built-in wooden ladder led to a hay loft where most of her camping equipment was stacked. Near the front double-door entrance were several boxes; household items of Lydia's temporarily in storage until the doctor decided what she was going to do.

When Marshall first pushed Charlie into the barn, three half-grown kittens had shot out of a bale of straw and careened through the door in a blur, startling him so badly he almost dropped his gun. "Shit!" he exclaimed, and Charlie had the audacity to laugh.

"You always were afraid of pussy," he jibed. "Prison must have been such a relief."

Marshall hissed in rage and shoved Charlie hard in the back. The professor stumbled over his own feet and lurched to the floor. Marshall quickly took a step toward the stack of boxes and laid the .22 Derringer on the top; a simple shooting would be much too kind a way to dispatch his nemesis. Charlie was almost back on his feet when Marshall got close enough to land a solid kick to the ribs. Charlie cried out and flipped away from his attacker, landing on his back in a pile of straw from which a pitchfork protruded. Two tiny kittens that had been burrowed underneath the warm bedding staggered out on wobbly legs and mewed their way toward the open door. Groaning, Charlie used the pitchfork handle to pull himself up before Penfield could connect again.

By the time Macedo joined them in the barn, the two were circling each other like mismatched prizefighters. Charlie had one arm curled around his middle and was slightly hunched; Marshall had at least a foot on him. "You miserable little fool," he seethed. "I am going to kill you with my bare hands, in inches; you'll find out _exactly_ what I've picked up in prison!" Marshall telegraphed his next lunge, and Charlie easily side-stepped. When Marshall roared and came at him again, Charlie met his jaw with a vicious right hook, badly bruising the third knuckle on his own hand. Both men howled in pain and dropped back.

Standing near the boxes and looking on, Macedo smiled. He was glad to see Marshall hadn't taken the easy road to killing Eppes. Frankly, at this point, he didn't care who won the hand-to-hand combat. He would finish the other one himself. This way was good. Eppes would have Marshall's DNA and other evidence all over him, and if he was somehow the one to survive, Macedo would finish the job with the 44 and plant the weapon on Marshall before he dropped him in the Missouri River. Of course, Penfield was an idiot, and he might actually get himself killed by the smaller man. That would entail a little awkward body removal, but Macedo was thoroughly back in the game by this time; he knew he could handle it. The extra work was a small price to pay for the entertainment. Idly, he picked up the Derringer Marshall had discarded. It was a smaller caliber than he usually preferred, but he liked the way it fit into the palm of his hand. It was a shame that it could be traced back to the dead guard; it would have been a nice weapon to add to his new arsenal.

Tiring of the battle and more winded than he cared to admit, Marshall used his height to his advantage and kicked out again. He connected with the side of Charlie's right knee, and he went down heavily, hitting his head on the riding lawn mower as he descended. For a moment, he saw stars. He might have blacked out, if Marshall hadn't made the mistake of stepping on his injured hand as he leaned, intending to grab Charlie's head with his own hands and shatter it like a watermelon on the mower.

The pain cleared Charlie's vision, however, and when Marshall momentarily looked away to see what he had tripped over, the smaller man thanked God and his therapist for the hours of leg exercises he had endured in recent months. He thrust his foot as hard as he could, aiming directly for Marshall's testicles.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don saw nothing but corn fields for so long he was worried that he had somehow passed the farm, regardless what the rental's GPS was telling him. He was about to give up and turn around when he rounded a slight curve and saw it, half a mile ahead. It was the only residence he had seen in miles; this _had_ to be the sister's farm.

He pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and shut off the engine. Don didn't want his arrival announced, so he was walking in. He checked his service weapon to make sure it was loaded, and climbed out of the car. Corn fields pushed to the shoulder on both sides of the road, and he dashed into the one on the same side of the country highway as the farm. If anyone was there, watching the road, he didn't want to take the chance of being seen.

Don knew he could run a mile in 8 minutes; he had been timed just last month on the F.B.I. training course when he re-qualified. Field agents were expected to pass certain physical tests every year, as well as maintaining marksmanship skills with their weapons. He was only covering half the distance now, but he was fighting his way through a corn field in a slow jog; sometimes, he had to drop to a walk. By the time he paused for breath on the edge of the field next to the farm, it had been almost 20 minutes since he'd parked the car.

Crouching slightly, Don watched the farmhouse for any sign of activity. He saw a few cats milling around, but no people. Squinting at the barn behind the main house, he could see that the door stood slightly ajar. He experienced a moment of indecision. Should he approach the house first, or go to the open barn?

He traveled down the edge of the field until he was at the back yard. From here, he could see both an old Ford sedan and a newer Dodge Caravan parked beside the barn. His heart rate quickened as he remembered that the APB the Leavenworth police had put out on Dr. Campbell's vehicle was for a Caravan. If this was the one, he had a reason now to get some manpower out at the farm. He started to reach for his phone, but stopped. Every form of law enforcement in two states was rapidly approaching Atchison, and he couldn't wait for them to turn around. Besides, he thought wryly, with that piece of work Lieutenant from the Leavenworth PD in charge, he probably wouldn't be able to convince him to send anybody, anyway. Decision made, he stepped out of the corn and onto the green lawn, running in a crouch to stand behind a large willow. He looked again at the house, and this time clearly saw a woman standing at a window, looking toward the barn. He had seen a photo of Dr. Campbell that the local PD had found in the house, and he knew that it was her. He had decided to head for the barn, but now his indecision returned. If she was in the house, chances were someone was in there with her. She was watching the barn, so there was probably someone out there, too. Don was still fairly certain she was a hostage; it had been the missing child that had convinced him. What better way to secure a mother's cooperation than by threatening her child? Still, there was a chance she was part of the escape. Don bowed his head in contemplation for a moment before he took a deep breath and risked it all. He stepped away from the tree, in full view of the woman at the window. He held up his gun in one hand, his badge in the other.

Don held his breath, waiting for her to sound an alarm, waiting for bullets to start flying at him from either the house or the barn. When she saw him step out from behind the tree, her hand had flown to her mouth in surprise, and they both stood as statues for seven agonizing seconds. Just when Don was ready to fall back into the corn and regroup, she waved, tentatively; then motioned to the front of the house. He was off like a shot, not even attempting to stick to cover. He followed the lawn around the house until he came to the large, covered, front porch, two wooden rocking chairs sitting on either side of the front door. The door was open, and Lydia Campbell stood shaking behind the screen.

She glanced quickly behind her; then beckoned him with a hand full of paper. With her other hand she lifted one finger to her lips, in the universal sign language for silence. Don quietly ascended the three steps and crossed to the door, his gun at the ready. When he arrived, the screen creaked open a few inches, and she shoved a 3 x 5 card through the door.

He hesitated, eventually figuring he'd already be dead if this was a trap. He let go of the gun with one hand and took the card. "_I am a hostage_," he read. "_I don't know when they will be back or what they can hear_." He looked up and saw another card slip through the crack. "_Escaped prisoner from Leavenworth, one accomplice."_ When he had finished reading that one, she had another ready. "_In the barn, with another hostage._" The fourth card dropped to the porch when both Agent and hostage heard a door at the rear of the house slam. Lydia backed away quickly, pushing the door most of the way shut, and Don pressed back against the side of the house. He stretched out his leg to drag the final card a little closer; then peered at it to read, "_My baby is in the van. Save my baby."_

"What are you doing?" Don heard clearly through the closed door, and he recognized the nasal whine instantly, even though it sounded a little pinched. Marshall Penfield. "I need some ice. Come and get me some ice!"

The sound had been growing louder as he approached the front of the house, but now Don heard the woman. "I thought…I thought I heard the dog," she stuttered. "I was going to let him in so he didn't go out to the barn, but it wasn't…one of the cats, I guess." Her voice was fading as its owner retreated toward the back of the house, and Don had to strain to hear her next words. "Come into the kitchen. I'll get you some ice."

Again Don hesitated. Macedo was probably doing something to Charlie in the barn, and every cell in his body ached to storm the wooden structure, gun blazing, and ask questions later. On the other hand, Marshall Penfield was just a few feet away, and he had to be neutralized as well. If he heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the barn, he could escape out the front and drag Dr. Campbell with him, disappearing into the corn.

Don suppressed a groan and pulled open the screen as silently as was possible.

He was going in.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 25


	26. Stuck On You

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 26: Stuck On You **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

When Charlie's foot drove Marshall's testicles into his scrotum, the taller man was felled like a tree, and was soon on his back, curling up like a potato bug. Disgusted, Macedo let him lie there until it looked like Eppes might regain his feet first. Then he had shoved the Derringer into the waistband of his slacks and walked further into the barn, still gripping the .44, stopping to yank the moaning Penfield to his feet. He paused to plant a well-aimed heel on Eppes' bruised hand. The man had wilted again, knocking into the mower, and Macedo shoved Penfield toward the door. "Go inside and get some ice," he ordered. "Finish off the woman while you are there." He thrust the .44 at Marshall – he wanted the man's prints on it anyway. "We have wasted enough time on this. I will take care of Eppes."

Marshall, hunched over and cupping his genitals, could barely manage to reach out one hand and grip the weapon. He tried to protest but was having a hard time getting his breath. "I want," he gasped, and Macedo glared at him and took another threatening step closer.

"Do you think I have limitless patience? You have had your chance, you spineless little fool! Now, go! Go and do as I say, or I will kill you before I kill him!" Blanching, nearly sick already from the blow to his manhood, Penfield lurched through the door and stumbled toward the farmhouse.

When Macedo turned back to Charlie, he was stunned to see the professor not only on his feet, but bringing a hoe down toward Hector's head. Somehow he had dislodged the tool from its nail on the barn wall. Startled, Macedo was still able to grab the descending hoe with both hands, easily wrenching it away from Charlie. Livid, he threw it to the side and aimed a hard, roundhouse karate kick at Charlie's knee. He connected, and the shattering patella echoed in the dusty barn before Charlie screamed and flew backwards, landing in a heap in the straw. Macedo laughed and reached casually for the Derringer stuffed under his waistband. Charlie was rolling in the straw, clutching at his knee with both hands, and Macedo caressed the perfect pearl handle of the small pistol lovingly. Charlie's struggles and his cries were weakening, as if he were about to lose consciousness.

Macedo took careful aim. "So many choices," he began, pulling back the hammer. "How many times shall I kill you?"

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Douglas was driving, part of a convoy of Staties, prison guards and city police, so Rutherford took the call. He swallowed when he saw the caller display – he hated talking to his boss and usually left that sort of thing to his partner. He tried to sound competent. "Yes, Director."

Tompkins wasted no-one's time on pleasantries. "Got anything?"

Douglas glanced sideways at him and Rutherford grinned nervously. "Um, yes. Yes, sir. We're on our way to Atchison. The State Police have located the prison van, and it looks like there was a second vehicle. It's a - a relative certainty that someone is helping them. Smart money's on the missing shrink."

Tompkins mulled that over, and finally came back with, "What about Special Agent Eppes? You indicated earlier that he was onsite. "

Rutherford reached up to pull his shirt collar away from a sweaty neck. "That's affirmative, sir."

"I want to talk to him."

Rutherford had been pretty pleased with himself so far, but now he began to stutter again. "Th…that's not…I can't…that is…he's not in our vehicle, sir."

Tompkins sighed. "Well, who is he riding with? Surely he's not going up there alone in a rental?"

Rutherford wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief. "Well, no, sir. Agent Eppes elected not to join us."

Tompkins was momentarily relieved. Eppes shouldn't be working on this case; he was too close…. Given a moment to think, though, the relief soon dissipated. He knew Agent Don Eppes, and there was no way on God's green earth that he was just going to twiddle his thumbs while two madmen toured the Midwest with his brother. "Where the hell is he?" he growled.

Rutherford wished Douglas would turn up the air conditioner. His hands were sweating so much the cell phone was about to squirt onto the floorboard. "He…disagreed with the Officer in Charge, sir. Consensus here is that Dr. Campbell is a willing participant in the escape, but Eppes is of the opinion that she's a hostage. He heard from a neighbor that she's been living on a farm over on the Missouri side of the line. He wanted to check that out."

"Let me get this straight." Tompkins' voice was level, controlled – almost icy – and scared the absolute hell out of Rutherford. "You met up with one of the best federal agents I know of in _any_ agency – I'd hire him in a minute if he'd leave the F.B.I. – and he shared his evaluation with you and Agent Douglas. The two agents, I might add, responsible for pulling the protection off Dr. Eppes in the first place. The two agents, I believe, who have fumbled this case from the beginning. And now I am to understand that you are also the two agents who not only ignored a federal officer, but sent him alone into God knows what?"

Rutherford's voice squeaked. "Douglas did it. He came down on the side of the locals."

Douglas turned to glare at him and Rutherford turned an agitated head in the other direction. Tompkins responded in a brief staccato burst. "Letmetalktohim."

Breathing heavily, Rutherford lowered the cell and stretched a shaking hand toward his partner. "The Director wishes to speak to you."

Douglas swore under his breath and grabbed the cell, bringing it to his ear. "Director Tompkins, sir, I….but…..you see…..but…..you want us to what?" He listened for a moment more and then nodded. "Yes, sir." Douglas shoved the phone back in Rutherford's direction and wrenched hard on the steering wheel. "Hold on!" he ordered unnecessarily as the sedan fishtailed in a high speed U-turn. "We're going to Kerrville."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don crept into the house like a burglar, quietly and stealthily. He paused between every step to track the voices. He heard the distinct sound of a chair scraping across a tile floor, and a petulant whine; a higher pitch than he remembered, but obviously Penfield. "Hurry up, bitch. I'm in _pain_, here."

Don edged up to a door jamb, and heard the rattling of ice trays. Light steps came a few feet in his direction and the woman spoke. "Here." Don figured this was as good a time as any, and he peeked around the frame of the doorway; then pulled back quickly. He didn't take a long look, but he was trained to observe details, and observe them he did.

He couldn't believe his luck. Penfield was in a straight-back chair that had been pulled several feet from a table – facing away from the door. The woman had been on the other side, between the escaped prisoner and a large stainless steel refrigerator, handing him a Ziploc® baggie full of ice. Marshall had grabbed it and plopped the bag directly in his own lap, bending over almost double in the chair. As he leaned forward, Don saw the butt of a gun sticking out of the back waistband of his jeans.

Don's heart pounded as he rested against the wall, but he still heard Marshall's muffled demand. "Get me another one for my face," he pouted. Don prayed that he could trust the woman to keep her head, and slowly looked around the door frame again. Marshall was in the same position; the woman was several feet away at a counter near the refrigerator, preparing another baggie. She was turned slightly away, but when Marshall moaned she spun back around. Don saw her eyes go wide when she focused on him at the doorway. She dropped the bag of ice and Marshall's head lifted a little, but only to look at her. She had dropped to the floor to chase ice cubes and he lowered his head again and began to rock a little in the chair. "Hurry up," he implored. "Clumsy wench."

The foreground of Don's mind was totally in the moment as he began to approach Marshall from behind, but a steady mantra played back-up. _Please don't let the floor squeak._ Step. _Please be smart enough to stay down._ Step. _Please don't let the floor squeak. _Another step and Don was as close as he intended to get, approximately three feet behind Marshall.

Penfield lifted his face to the woman again and stretched out a hand. "Just give it to me!"

Don extended his arms, leveling his service weapon at the back of Marshall's neck. He spoke in a low, menacing voice. "If I blow your head off, you sorry son of a bitch, will you promise not to sue me?"

Marshall froze. He'd know that voice anywhere. How the hell did Don Eppes end up in a farmhouse in Missouri? The woman was too far away to grab and use as a shield, and he knew the FBI agent well enough to know what would happen if he tried to reach around and retrieve the gun tucked in the back of the waistband.

He was still trying to figure a way out when Don spoke again, his voice eerily calm. "The only witness here is a woman you've terrorized all day, a woman whose child you've put in mortal danger. A woman who won't see a damn thing when I shoot you down like the rabid dog you are."

Marshall was careful to make no threatening moves, but straightened in the chair a little and dropped his hands to his sides, where Eppes could see them. "That little pea shooter of yours packs quite a wallop," he responded. "Macedo will hear the noise all the way out in the barn. What's going to happen to Charlie then?"

Don's grip tightened on the gun and his eyes narrowed. "What do you care? It's not like you'll be alive to find out." Marshall swallowed as Don continued. "Dr. Campbell. Skirt around the table, and come to me. Stay out of his reach. So much as take a deep breath, Penfield, and it will be your last."

Lydia, who had been crouched on the floor for the last several seconds, sprang up so fast the ice cubes scattered again. Looking quickly from one man to the other, she finally did what Don ordered, staying as far away from the seated man as she could. When she had safely reached Don, her sigh of relief was cut off by his next order.

"Walk up behind him. Take that gun out of his pants." She looked at him, terrified, and Don directed his next words to Penfield. "This is considered close range, asshole. Give me a reason, and the crime techs will study the blood spatter pattern on the walls for years." Lydia glanced toward the window, and thought of her baby baking in the Caravan; then she steeled herself and did as Don asked. She pulled the guard's service revolver out of Marshall's jeans and backed away so quickly she almost tripped. Don didn't even meet her eyes, but continued to stare at Marshall. "You're doing fine," he said to both of them. "Now. Penfield. Hands on the back of your head. Fingers interlaced." He hesitated for just a moment. He'd never in his life hated anyone as much as the man in front of him. When he thought of what Penfield had done to Charlie, was planning to do even up until a few moments ago, he could feel black rage inside him. It would be so easy to put an end to his miserable life. Send the woman outside, no witnesses – he could claim Penfield went for the gun…

With a huge effort, he tore himself away from the thought, and nudged the woman cowering beside him. "Cuffs are in my back pocket." She stood for a moment, eventually filling in the blanks, and then retrieved the handcuffs and started back toward Marshall. "Stay clear of the shot," Don ordered. "I still haven't decided not to take it."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Lydia couldn't watch the F.B.I. agent approach the barn because Marshall Penfield was lying directly under her sink, his head in the cupboard jammed behind the trash can, hands held awkwardly over his head and securely fastened in the handcuffs, which were looped around the new copper plumbing Maizey had installed after she bought the property. After she had tossed the handcuffs into the escaped prisoner's lap from a safe distance, the agent had forced him to place himself in this position. Unfortunately, he had not taken the time to gag him before he left, and Penfield had been whining and wheedling non-stop ever since. He was unable to see Dr. Campbell, but he knew that she was there, somewhere in the kitchen, the prison guard's service weapon firmly in her hands and pointed in his direction.

When she couldn't take it any more, she began to sing Gaby's favorite song so that she wouldn't have to hear him. Before she got through the first verse, tears were gathering at the back of her throat and she was desperate to follow the agent and get to the van. "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," she sang, her voice thick with the unshed tears, and she let her eyes wander. "How...How I Won...Wonder What You Are." She could see the keys to the van on the counter where she had dropped them, when Macedo had ordered her to make them lunch, and she took a step toward them as if drawn by a magnet. "...Up Above..." Penfield wasn't going anywhere. Maizey had spent the royalties from her first book on the renovations of this farm, and the pipes were as expensive and solidly installed as everything else. "...The Wor...World, So High..." Keeping one eye on the prisoner, she shifted her hold on the gun to a one-handed grip, reaching with the other to touch the keys. "...Like A Diamond, In...In the Sky..."

Marshall's nasal whine just grew louder. "I'm in _pain_, here, doc! This is _wrenching_ my _shoulder_ right out of its socket! I'll be _good_. Just let me sit up!"

Lydia ignored him as her fingers curled around the key ring of their own volition, with no instruction from her. "Twinkle, Twinkle," she sang, and then the keys were in the pocket of the jeans Macedo had insisted she change into. "...Little Star..." she breathed, backing out of the kitchen. "Mommy's Coming To The Car."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Gaby was wet.

She was hungry.

She was thirsty.

She was hot, she wanted her mommy, and she didn't feel good.

The toddler did not understand why she was in Mommy's car, but not in her special seat. She blinked up at the booster chair for a moment, and then used it to help herself climb up to a kneeling position on the sticky leather bench, so she could look out the window. She saw several of the barn cats out in the yard, and a man. He was walking funny, like he was trying to be short, and hiding behind trees. He was holding something. Did he have a toy?

She slid down the seat on her stomach until her chubby little legs stood on fat little feet solidly on the floor of the van. She was crying a little because she did not like to be wet, and it was uncomfortable to waddle between the two chairs in front, but she had to get to the big window.

He might have one of her toys.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Macedo wanted Eppes dead, but he wanted him to see it coming. The weakling was practically in a fetal position in the straw; his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his hands grabbing at his knee as he moaned. Macedo backed toward the front of the barn, near the boxes, and chanced a quick look at the house, wondering if Penfield had finished the woman, yet. His eyes grew wide and he swore in Spanish when he saw Agent Eppes, in a low crouch, suddenly dash from behind an oak tree about halfway between the house and the barn, and sprint for the cover of a chokeberry bush that edged the lawn. Letting Charlie wallow in his misery for the moment, Macedo hurried the last few feet to the boxes. They had been stacked just inside the now-open barn door, and he could crouch behind them and stay out-of-sight to anyone on the lawn.

He cursed again, wishing that he had the larger gun and had let Penfield take the Derringer. Even the .38 he purchased on the streets of L.A. was tucked into his duffle, inside the house. All he had was the tiny .22 caliber gun, and that was unfortunate. Macedo knew that even a .22 could cause fatal damage, however; the shot just needed to be accurate. It wouldn't hurt to fire from a short distance, either. He shrugged. At least the discharge wouldn't make much noise. Smiling grimly, he ignored the groans and whimpers of the man behind him and used the top box to steady his aim at Don Eppes' head.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The man ran out from behind a tree and veered toward the van, but then disappeared behind a bush. Gaby had climbed into the driver's seat and was leaning over the steering wheel trying to find him again when she was distracted by movement at the back of the house. The back door had opened, and soon her mommy appeared and hurried down the steps. The sight of her reminded Gaby how unhappy she was. "Mommy!" she cried, banging her little fists on the hard plastic of the steering wheel. Her mother did not answer her, and Gaby began to wail in earnest. Mommy should be able to hear her cry; mommy always heard it when Gaby cried for her. The little girl started to crawl to the other seat, to see if mommy could hear better there, when she had an idea. The van could make noise, just like her little pink Barbie car at Daddy's house. The big van was much louder, and Mommy always got mad when Gaby pushed on the hard plastic wheel and made the horn yell. But Gaby didn't care. Mommy was being mean.

So she pressed down on the steering wheel as hard as she could.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don was less than five feet away from the open door when he had to break away from the chokeberries and all form of cover. He stayed low, with his service weapon leading the way.

When the heavy and peaceful silence of the late Missouri afternoon was shattered by the sudden and almost obscene honking of the Caravan's horn, several things happened at once. Lydia broke into a full-out run; Don whirled toward the sound, looking for danger; and the round Macedo had just released, instead of burying itself in the agent's skull, whizzed harmlessly behind it instead. Don felt and heard the projectile and whirled again, dropping even further. The second bullet found a home, slamming into him before he completed his turn and traveling completely through the flesh of his right forearm and lodging in his left, nuzzling up to the ulna. Don made an involuntary sound of pain, and his service weapon flew out of his hands and landed on the grass a few feet away. Don dropped to his knees, ignoring the fire in his arms, and used his elbows, trying to crawl toward the Glock.

Macedo straightened to stand over the boxes, and took a step back even as he fired another round. This one burrowed into Don's hamstring as he crawled, and he screamed and collapsed the rest of the way into the grass. Macedo squinted and drew a bead. He would put the fourth bullet where the first one was supposed to go.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don's first grunts of pain were connected directly to Charlie's eyes, and the lids flew open. He began to infuse his movements with purpose; Don was in trouble, and he needed to get up. Charlie pushed himself into a sitting position, biting his lip to keep from yelling out himself, and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork stuck in the bale of straw at his side. The second shot, followed by Don's scream of agony, catapulted him off the floor. Charlie pulled himself up using the wooden handle as a crutch. He saw Macedo aiming the weapon, and even though he had not seen his brother, knew from the screams that Don was the target. He staggered half a step, determined to stop the crazed lunatic before he could do any more damage. When Charlie put weight on his right leg, he nearly went down again, and he knew he would never make it. His hand, covered in the sweat of fear, trembled on the pitchfork and slipped down the handle a few inches. Desperation made Charlie reckless, and he grunted as he shifted most of his weight to his left side and ripped the pitchfork out of the bale. He let loose his own scream as he threw the farm implement as hard as he could toward Macedo's back.

Unfortunately, with his bruised hand, and one-legged, that wasn't very hard. He wobbled on his feet as he watched the pitchfork bounce harmlessly off Macedo's back. It then pinballed off the wall and thudded to the floor at Macedo's feet. Macedo's next shot was wild, the flying pitchfork having served as a deterrent, but still the bullet lightly grazed Don's head as he writhed on the ground. His final scream cut off in the middle as unconsciousness claimed him.

Macedo whirled and glared at Charlie; without anything to hold onto, he was starting to go down again. Hector took a half-step, enraged, intending to finish the professor, but his foot hit the handle of the pitchfork and he bellowed. Glancing over his shoulder at Don, he saw that the agent still lived; he could see the labored rise and fall of his chest. He would kill Charlie after he had made him watch while he killed his brother, he decided. Turning his feet again, he tripped over the pitchfork once more; this time he swore and bent swiftly to pick it up. He tossed it in the general direction of the riding lawn mower. If he had watched its flight and subsequent landing, he would have been impressed when the long handle actually slipped through the steering wheel like a basketball through a hoop. When the handle hit the floor, in the small space between the front tire and the grass guard, the pitchfork wobbled for a moment and then settled, prong-up, at a 45-degree angle. He couldn't have planted it any more firmly if he had tried. Macedo did not see the phenomenon, though, because his attention was on Don. He still had time to put one more slug into his head before he retrieved the .44 and finished Charlie.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie saw Macedo take aim again and calculated the distance between then – nearly four feet – and how much pounds-per-square-inch pressure was required. He had time to take one step onto his bad leg and balance on it while he used the good one to spring across the distance.

"NO!!" he screamed, hoping the sound would again discombobulate Macedo, and then he allowed adrenalin and fear to catapult him into the Colombian.

Charlie was slight, but his adrenalin-inspired feat was completely unexpected and the impact that hit Macedo was tremendous. He stumbled backwards and the Derringer flew out of his hand. His arms windmilled once and then his hands buried himself in his assailant's hair and clothing, fisting there and dragging the professor with him. The added weight accentuated Macedo's loss of balance and he stumbled backward again. Even when his foot hit the tire of the riding lawn mower, he continued his downward trajectory. Macedo didn't stop until the pitchfork was halfway through his chest.

His eyes went wide with shock, and his lips parted in a perfect "O", but no sound came from his mouth. He maintained consciousness, and fought to use Charlie's weight as some sort of counterbalance.

He probably should have let go.

In the end, as the tines of the fork progressed through his evil heart and lungs, his arms tightened convulsively around the professor. Charlie, shorter and smaller than Macedo, was lifted slightly off the floor. As the tines continued their trek through Hector, his grip loosened enough for Charlie's feet to settle on the floor again, but not enough for him to pull away with only one good leg. His ear was at Macedo's mouth, and he felt the last expulsion of breath just before he felt the pitchfork enter his own chest.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 26


	27. Eppes Kabob

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 27: Eppes Kabob**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Lydia was not unfamiliar with firearms.

Before she had moved Gaby to the farm, she had insisted that Maizey spend some of her renovation money on a sophisticated fingerprint-activated gun safe. The unit had only been programmed with Maizey's prints and her own, so there was no chance Gaby could accidentally find a key, when she was old enough to look, or figure out a combination. Still, Lydia knew how to handle the weapon she held. As girls, both she and Maizey had hunted with their father. While neither had pursued that recreation on their own as adults, Maizey did belong to a shooting club for a while. Sometimes Lydia went with her to the range, and took a shot or two herself. So the distinctive, almost suppressed _pops_ that she heard while she tore across the lawn encouraged her to run slightly bent over, her arms held up by her head in a posture of protection. Someone was shooting. It sounded like a small-caliber weapon, but she had killed her first deer with a .22 rifle, so that fact was not as encouraging as it might have been to someone less experienced with firearms.

Even crouched as she was, she saw the agent go down and heard his screams. Her heart nearly stopped and her feet momentarily slowed, but Gaby was still honking the horn of the Caravan, and she knew she had to reach her daughter before the madman inside the barn silenced her first.

She kept the bulk of the van between herself and the barn and opened the passenger side front door. By the time she first hid the gun behind the front tire and convinced her shaking hands to perform the simple task of placing a key in a lock, Gaby had slid from the driver's seat and toddled to the passenger side, her crying easily heard now. Lydia wrenched the door open and pulled her daughter to her, sinking to the ground outside the van with her precious bundle. "Shhh, baby," she cried herself, nuzzling the toddler's hair. "Mommy's here. Mommy's here."

The frustrated child screamed and beat her tiny fists on her mother's chest twice before she settled into the sort of heartbroken sob only a two-year-old can manage and allowed her little body to relax against her mother's warmth. She twisted little fingers in mommy's blouse and pushed her wet little face into Lydia's chest, seeking comfort. Lydia rocked her and crooned and cried her own tears into the child's hair. All too soon, the baby's body grew heavy, her breathing even, and her mother knew she had fallen asleep again.

Since Gaby had stopped screaming and crying, the mother had heard only a final shot, a choked, cut-off yelp of pain, and some sort of disturbance in the barn. At least two minutes had passed since she had heard anything at all, and the options raced through her brain. She had the keys to the van, which still hung in the door, and a sick child in her arms. But if she stood up to buckle Gaby in her seat, worked her way around to the driver's side and fired up the engine, would that draw his attention to them again? Maybe she should just run for it. She could stick the .44 in the waistband of her jeans and run directly into the corn on the other side of the gravel driveway, just a few feet away. It would be almost five terrified miles to the next farm, if she managed to stay on course through the jungle of corn. Could she do that, or would she and Gaby become hopelessly lost and wander around for hours? She would last a few days, but the tiny girl was probably already dehydrated, besides whatever else had been done to her. Lydia looked up the long driveway that passed the house. Dare she take the time to go back inside? She could change her daughter, get some juice into her, grab the diaper bag and then just run down the rural highway. She was certainly not the only individual who lived on a farm and worked in town. Traffic would pick up soon as people headed home, and someone would surely stop. Yet she was a doctor, and she knew she should not let Gaby have anything until tests determined what was already in her system.

She tilted her head back on the panel of the van and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the plaintive noises that were beginning to drift across the lawn. Yes, she was a doctor; but she was a mother, first. Her priority was to get Gaby to safety, wasn't it? A light breeze had begun to blow out the heat of the day, and it seemed to whisper to her. "Charlie," she heard; a desperate plea that settled around her shoulders in a suffocating blanket. She knew it was coming from the man on the lawn, just as she knew he was injured; just as she knew she had a responsibility as a physician – as a human being – to help him. He had saved her life, and allowed her to hold her daughter again.

A grunt of pain, another desolate "Charlie," and Lydia was sliding up the side of the van. Crying again herself now, she kissed the sleeping child and laid her back on the front passenger seat. "Mommy loves you," she whispered, touching the sweaty mat of baby hair. Gaby turned slightly to the back of the seat and Lydia kissed her again. Then she rolled down the window a few inches, softly shut the door and locked the van once more, pocketing the keys. She bent over and retrieved the gun from behind the tire, and then she started for the barn.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Douglas slowed slightly as they passed the car parked on the shoulder of the road. He had not purposely memorized the plates of Don's rental car, but he wasn't surprised to discover that he had. He was a cop, for all intents and purposes, and it was a long-ingrained habit. He glanced at Rutherford. "That's Eppes' car."

His partner nodded. "Thought so. You can see the farm from here. He must have walked up; didn't want the noise of the vehicle." He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. "Do you think we should…"

Douglas shook his head. "There are two of us, we got back-up. Plus, you're gonna call his cell. You've still got the number programmed in from our time in L.A.?"

Rutherford grinned and started searching his contact list. "I knew there was a reason you were the senior agent!"

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Lydia stood in the shelter of the corner of the barn, and watched the agent limp toward the door. Wide open, no cover. She could see blood dripping down both arms and his face. It was apparent from the way he dragged his right leg that he had sustained injury there, as well. She wanted to run to him – he was staggering as well as limping, and didn't even have his gun – but she was afraid more bullets would come flying from the barn at any moment. Finally she edged around the corner, hoping to sneak a peek through the open door. Maybe she could offer cover. She glanced at him again uneasily; she should be just as visible to him as he was to her, but he had not acknowledged her in any way. He was not trying to retrieve his weapon from the grass a few feet to his right. He was just looking at the barn, repeating the name "Charlie" over and over.

When the cell on his belt suddenly started ringing, Lydia knew he was dead and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the gunshot. When nothing happened after three rings, she opened them again. There _had_ been noise in the barn, she remembered. The agent was stopped now, a look of abject horror on his face, less than two feet from her. He was swaying dangerously, ignoring the phone, and she involuntarily took a step toward him, leaving her own cover. When she wasn't immediately shot in the back, she turned herself, and her eyes followed his into the barn.

What greeted her was the most surreal thing she had ever seen. Two bodies were bent over the riding lawn mower in a pose reminiscent of some intimate dance. From where she stood, just on the other side of the boxes, she could see that neither was moving. The one farthest away was bent nearly double in a backwards arch; he seemed to be resting on the lawn mower. The other was bent over facing him, his own face turned sideways, head lolling on the chest of the first man. She didn't see how either could maintain such a position voluntarily, but she still hesitated. It could be an elaborate set-up, designed to lure the F.B.I. agent closer; surely there could not be much ammo, left. The cell had stopped ringing and Lydia edged closer to the injured agent. "It could be a trick," she whispered. "We should stay back." The cell suddenly chirped again, and Lydia started in fright, but noticed that neither of the bodies moved. The agent beside her started to fall, and she reached out to help, but he was too heavy for her to hold up with one hand while she gripped the gun in her other, so she tried to lower him gently to the ground. When he was down, she reached out gingerly and unclipped the cell phone from his belt.

"Help," she whispered.

Rutherford hesitated. "Who is this?" he asked, looking toward his partner.

"Doc…Doctor Lydia Campbell. I was kidnapped today by an escaped prisoner from Leavenworth and his, his accomplice. I'm on a farm near Kerrville, and my daughter…. Something is wrong with my daughter…."

The NSA agent interrupted. "Dr. Campbell, we know where you are. I am an agent with the National Security Agency. Can you tell me how you got this phone?"

She was sure now the men in the barn were dead; she just didn't know how they had ended up that way. The man who had helped her was trying to regain his feet. "An F.B.I. agent," she breathed into the phone. "He came to help, but he's hurt. Are you far away? He and my daughter, they need help."

"We're less than a quarter mile away," Rutherford answered. "Are you in a safe place?"

Lydia looked behind her toward the road. "No. Maybe. We're in the back, right in front of the barn. But there's someone in there. I think they might be dead." Don was crawling forward now, and Lydia scrambled up to follow. "They must be dead," she repeated, dropping the phone on the grass and using both hands on the .44 again.

She held it in front of her body as she stepped around the crawling agent and entered the barn. She gave her eyes a few moments to adjust to the shadows, and then started a large arc around the bodies. She was close enough now to see that the man on the bottom was staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. Without getting even closer and taking his pulse, she was fairly certain the man who had terrorized her family all day was dead – and she was shocked at the relief she felt.

The other man drew her attention then, and she gasped. He was definitely unconscious, but she was sure she had seen his back move, as if he was breathing. As she continued to circle the bodies, in fact, she detected a definite wheeze.

The crawling F.B.I. agent had used the stacked boxes to pull himself back up, and staggered over to the bodies. His face reflected shock, terror and disgust. "Charlie," he said again, placing his hands on the smaller man's shoulders and grimacing in pain as he tried to summon the strength required to lift the body off Macedo.

Lydia took another step and saw the pitchfork, skewering through Macedo's back and into Charlie's chest and screamed, making a lightning-fast connection. "Stop!" she yelled, letting the gun drop to the floor and rushing toward the startled agent. She placed her hands on top of his. "Don't pull him off, don't pull him off!" She was having difficulty releasing Don's hands, even though both of his arms were compromised, and she threw a hard hip into his injured leg. He cried out in pain and she managed to pry off his hands. "You'll kill him," she insisted, insinuating her body between the agent and the man he kept calling 'Charlie'. She dropped a hand to his neck, and felt a strong pulse. "My God," she whispered. "My God."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 27


	28. Always By Your Side

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****28:**** Always by Your Side**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1; add clarificiation for Brave Anonymous Reviewers: This work qualifies as _fiction_ and must be consumed with one tablespoon of salt.**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Douglas and Rutherford bounced down the gravel drive toward the house and pulled to a stop in front of the building with the rasping skid of tires on gravel. No sooner were they out of the car than they spotted the petite figure of a woman, who had stepped out around the corner of the barn and was beckoning them urgently. They sprinted over to her, and she called to them while they were still paces away. "I'm Lydia Campbell – they're in here!"

She didn't bother to wait, but headed around the corner again, and they bounded around behind her, coming up short at the entrance, stopping dead as they took in the scene. "Jesus," breathed Douglas, and they came forward on unsteady legs.

Don Eppes was covered in blood, standing next to the figures of Macedo and Charlie, who at first appeared to be in suspended animation, frozen together in a pose impossible to maintain unsupported – like a twisted, nouveau art presentation of '_American Gothic_.' As Douglas and Rutherford entered and they got a look at the pitchfork protruding from Macedo's back, Douglas blanched, and Rutherford turned positively green. Don Eppes was pale himself, and breathing heavily, but he stood with a shaking hand at Charlie's neck, as if he thought if he removed it, the pulse that he was checking for would vanish. That was understandable; the professor's breathing was shallow and too fast, and had an ominous wheeze to it.

Douglas found his voice. "I called for backup and an ambulance." He looked at Don, taking in the streaming bullet wounds in his arms and leg, and the gash in the side of his head. "Maybe you should lie down."

Don shook his head, weakly, leaning on his good leg. His voice was hoarse. "I'm okay."

Lydia interjected. "I'm going to run up to the house and get some towels and bandages. The other man – Penfield - is inside. He's handcuffed, but maybe one of you could come with me?"

Rutherford stood quickly. "I'll do it," he squawked, grateful for the chance to escape the gory scene. He took off after Lydia, who had already sprinted out of the barn.

She stopped briefly at the Caravan to check on Gaby, who was still sound asleep on the seat, and ran for the house as a sheriff's vehicle and two state troopers pulled into the driveway, lights flashing. Rutherford ran to meet them, flipping open his badge. "Make sure you guys pull your vehicles off to the side! We're going to have an ambulance coming, and we need them to get as close as possible."

As if on cue, the sound of a siren could be heard in the distance. Rutherford ran to catch up with Lydia, and found her rummaging in a closet near the kitchen. He could see legs stretched out on the floor, and he advanced into the room to see Penfield lying on the linoleum, his hands cuffed to the plumbing under the kitchen sink. Penfield stared at him, and Rutherford stared back. Without a doubt, this was going to go down as one of the more memorable days of his career.

Gathering his senses, he followed Lydia, who was already headed out of the house and toward the barn at a trot, and stopped to speak to the sheriff and the state troopers. "We've got an escaped federal prisoner inside, cuffed to the plumbing. One of you head inside to keep an eye on him, and I need another one to come with me and get the key to the cuffs." He looked at the sheriff. "Direct the medics to the barn when they get here."

The ambulance was pulling in as he ran back to the barn with a trooper. The scene didn't look any better upon his second arrival, but at least Rutherford didn't feel alone as his stomach lurched – the state trooper turned an even unhealthier shade of green than he was. At his request, Eppes produced a key for the handcuffs by fumbling feebly in his pocket, one hand still on Charlie, as Lydia Campbell wrapped a bandage around the same arm. Don seemed to be in a daze, but the sound of the ambulance siren pulled him out of it. He turned agonized eyes on Douglas and Rutherford. "Tell them to hurry," he pleaded, his voice ragged.

Moments later, the medics were in the barn. After a shocked moment, and a "Whoa," from one of them, they circled the pair, evaluating the situation. One of them took quick vitals of both Macedo and Charlie. "Joe," he said, "we need a saw. We need to remove this handle."

The medic named Joe started from the barn, but stopped suddenly and veered over to work table against the wall. "There's one right here," he said, lifting a coping saw.

The first medic looked at Rutherford, Douglas, and the trooper. "Okay, we need some help holding these two while we remove the handle. I'm going to strap them together first; it's absolutely vital that we not disturb the tines of the pitchfork. The guy on the bottom is already dead, but we need to be sure we don't do more damage to the one on the top."

He didn't go any further, because the other injured man looked horrified and turned even paler. He didn't need that patient going into shock. He cast a critical eye at the woman; she was nearly finished bandaging the man, and was doing a professional job. "Hang in there, buddy, we've got another ambulance coming. Why don't you sit down?" He glanced at Douglas. "We got names for these guys?"

Douglas cleared his throat. "The patient on the –," he swallowed, and managed to finish the phrase, "- pitchfork- is Dr. Charles Eppes, and the other is Agent Don Eppes – they're brothers. The dead man is Hec-," he stopped, realizing that he was about to give away classified information, "is Jorge Caleña."

The medic nodded, and carefully inserting a rolled up towel between the victims' shoulders, laid a towel over Macedo's face, and began to strap the two bodies together with rolls of tape. Then with the aid of the others, they managed to saw off the handle of the pitchfork. Lifting both of the men as a unit, sweating and grunting with the effort, they managed to sit them upright on the gurney, their legs straddling it; Charlie's legs overlapping the dead man's, his head drooping sideways onto Macedo's shoulder. "Be careful with his leg," said Joe, as they arranged the limp bodies. "It looks like he has significant swelling around that knee."

The other medic nodded as he checked the taping job, and satisfied that Charlie was indeed bound securely to the dead man, moved swiftly to evaluate Don. As he did, Charlie moaned, a soft, high-pitched, "uh," that sounded more like a sob than a moan. Don pushed against the medic with a grimace, swaying unsteadily. "Charlie?"

They turned for a brief instant to look, but Charlie's eyes were closed; he still appeared unconscious, and his head remained lying against Macedo's towel-covered face and shoulder. "Why don't you sit down until the ambulance gets here, okay?" suggested the medic. "You're both going to the same hospital."

Don set his jaw stubbornly. "I'm going with him."

"There won't be enough room," argued the medic. "Especially not with them in this position – we'll need to hold them -," his words were broken off as Charlie moaned again, and their attention was riveted, as his drooping head rolled and lifted and his eyes fluttered open.

A groan came from him, and Charlie blinked, trying to focus. He couldn't move his arms, his body…why couldn't he move? He lifted his head, and stared in confusion at the fabric so close to his face. The movement dislodged the towel and it dropped between them, just as it began to dawn on Charlie that he was attached to a body. Macedo's sightless eyes stared back, blood drooling from his mouth down his slack jaw, and Charlie's breath caught, hitching at the agony in his chest. He was dimly aware of voices, but all he could see was the ghoulish face, so close to his, the eyes staring sightlessly.

Charlie suddenly came to life as sheer panic took over. He could hear screaming now, along with the other voices, and he struggled frantically against his bonds, kicking, twisting his head, ignoring the awful pain in his chest and knee. He started coughing, deep painful choking coughs, and the screaming stopped; it occurred to him it was his own.

Don had crossed the space between them with one huge limping stride, and he put an arm around Charlie, as the two medics struggled to hold him still. Charlie was wide-eyed, his face pale, the eyes mad with terror. "Charlie, Charlie, listen to me! You need to calm down – Charlie!"

The screams were broken by a rough, wheezing cough, and Don seized the moment, grabbing Charlie's face with both hands and turning it toward him, ignoring the fire in his arms from the movement. "Charlie, look at me. Charlie!"

Charlie gasped, a rasping breath, and Don could see him begin to focus; the eyes were still filled with horror, but they were looking at him now. "Get him off me," moaned Charlie, and the pleading look tore at Don's heart.

"Charlie, listen to me – they can't separate you until you're at the hospital, do you understand? They're going to take you right now." Don's voice was hoarse with emotion and pain.

Charlie twisted his head out of Don's hands, his breathing ragged, horrid sounding. "No, no, no…," he moaned, his eyes falling on one of the medics. "Please, please, get him off…,"

"Your brother's right," the medic said, firmly, but kindly to Charlie. "You need to stay calm." He eyed the two men appraisingly, as Don murmured soothingly to Charlie. "Maybe we _can_ fit you in the ambulance," he said to Don. "It might be best if you go along – we'll figure something out." He jerked his head at the other medic, who had been busy starting an IV. "We need to get him out of here; let's move."

A third medic and another state trooper had joined the group, and they began pushing gently, slowly on the gurney, as the two medics held the men upright. Don limped alongside, still talking to Charlie, murmuring incessantly, his low voice punctuated by Charlie's rasping breaths and the occasional moan.

Douglas stepped up alongside and spoke quietly to Don. "We'll follow you, and bring Dr. Campbell and her daughter."

Don nodded to show that he'd heard him, but didn't take his eyes off Charlie, still speaking soothingly and holding his drooping head. "It's okay, Buddy, they're going to take care of you, just relax, take some breaths, it's okay, stay with me now, it's okay…,"

Douglas moved back, and turned toward Lydia, who was standing by, looking collected, but pale. "We can give you and your daughter a ride to the hospital to get checked out. Why don't you run and get what you need?"

She nodded mutely and took off for the house to collect a diaper bag and her purse. One of the troopers had come out, and was herding Penfield toward his patrol car. Douglas trotted forward to intercept them, reaching them as Penfield caught sight of the gurney, being slowly propelled across the lawn.

Penfield's snarl changed to wide-eyed amazement at the sight of the two bodies and the remnants of the pitchfork protruding from Macedo's back, and he threw back his head and laughed. "Holy crap," he sputtered, "that's beautiful!"

Douglas whacked him on the back of his head with his open hand.

"Shut up, asshole," he shot back, and pushed down hard on Penfield's head as he twisted to enter the vehicle. Douglas looked at the trooper. "Take this jerk back to Leavenworth – and take some back-up with you to make sure he gets there." He leaned down to look in the vehicle, still addressing the trooper, but fixing his eyes on Penfield. "You can bet that he's never coming out again, until it's time for his funeral."

Douglas took in Penfield's look of hatred with satisfaction, and straightened, narrowing his eyes as he took in the gurney's slow progression toward the ambulance, a surreal scene in the hot Missouri sunshine.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The ride seemed to take forever; the ambulance moved slowly down the rural roads, and crept around corners. Don knew that they were trying to avoid jostling Charlie; he knew the slow pace was necessary, but his mind screamed for speed. They had managed to fit him on the same gurney, sitting upright behind Charlie, his legs over the side. One of his arms was less sore than the other one, and he held it carefully around Charlie, trying to offset the horrible object appended to the front of his brother with comforting contact behind him, around him. Don's head was throbbing, and he knew that a bullet had grazed his skull; the blood dripping down the side of his face was proof enough of that. It wasn't the first head injury Don had suffered, and he wondered for a moment how it was that he could function at all, let alone comfort Charlie, but finally shrugged it off as some freak adrenaline thing and got back to the business at hand.

Charlie seemed to be barely holding it together, on the verge of panic and shock, his breathing shallow and rapid, his heart racing, his body racked with tremors. Charlie's head was turned sideways, and Don kept murmuring into his ear, incessantly, talking him down, as if the sound of his voice was Charlie's only tether to sanity. Amidst the words of encouragement he talked about anything, everything – home, the koi pond, the last time they went bowling, a trip to the beach when they were kids, happy things, silly things, like the time seven-year old Charlie put on one of Alan's long overcoats, and sat on Don's shoulders with the overcoat covering Don's upper body, and they walked down the street that way, just to see the neighbor's reactions. Don talked until he was hoarse, and kept talking, his calm voice belying his own pain, and the terror in his heart.

It was only a ten-mile jaunt down 92 to St. Luke's Northern Hospital, but by the time they got there, Don felt as though he would explode. In spite of his burning leg, he got out of the ambulance quickly – too quickly, and he felt a medic's steadying hand on his upper arm as the ambulance entrance spun around him. "Let us get you a gurney, or at least a wheelchair," urged the medic, but Don waved him off, and limped forward as Charlie's gurney was pushed forward.

Now that he was standing, he could see Charlie's expression; he could see the horror and pain in those eyes, dark above the oxygen mask, the helplessness; the tear-streaked face. It reminded Don of the dog he'd had when he was young; it had been hit by a car outside their home, and had the same look in its eyes as it died in his arms on the lawn. With a shudder, he pushed the memory back, and moved next to the gurney as it made its slow way into the ER, again speaking softly to Charlie, in a voice that was growing increasingly raspy. It didn't matter – none of it mattered, not the hoarseness, not pain in his leg and arms, not the throbbing in his head, not the growing weakness and dizziness. His brother needed him, and that was where he would be.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The ER doc, Mike Winston, took one look at the bloody scene in front of him, and whistled under his breath. He checked vitals quickly; and promptly verified what the medics told him, that one victim was dead, and one was still alive. There was a third man there; one of medics told him under his breath that it was the patient's brother. The man was pale, and had blood-soaked bandages around his arms and leg, and a nasty gash in the side of his head. He looked none too steady on his feet, and Dr. Winston's first instinct was to escort him into another exam room, but a look at his brother's face convinced him otherwise. The smaller man on the gurney looked shocky, as though he was barely holding on, and Winston decided to set aside protocol and let his brother stay – they seemed to be drawing strength from each other.

Don watched as the team bustled around Charlie and Macedo, cutting Charlie's shirt from him, taking vitals, starting yet more IVs. He winced as two of them inserted chest tubes, one on either side, threading them between Charlie's ribs, but never ceased talking, never stopped his soothing litany. At least, not until the doctor stepped in front of him. "We've done all we can here," said Winston. "We need to take him up the OR, and you need be attended."

Don could hear Charlie's panicked moan, muffled through the oxygen mask, as they began to push the gurney out. "Don!"

It was agonized, like the expression on Charlie's face, and it made Don ignore the roaring in his ears, the dimming of his vision, as he tried to push past the doctor. His knees buckled, and he felt hands grabbing his upper arms. The last thing he saw as he went out was Charlie's tortured, terrified face, floating away from him.

End Chapter 28

…………………………………………………………………………………………..


	29. Alice's Wonderland

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****29: Alice's Wonderland **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**This chapter is dedicated to Alice I, many thanks for her help with the OR scene.**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Alice yawned and wished again that X-ray techs were allowed to bring coffee into the exam suite. It was understandable enough that the practice was prohibited; one spilled cup; and 2 dollars; worth of coffee - or any other liquid, for that matter - could take out the keyboard interface for a 300,000-dollar CT scanner in nothing flat. So it wasn't that she begrudged the rule in general. The pure and simple fact was that Alice was tired. She didn't generally pull OT, but she had volunteered to cover during the height of the vacation season, on any shift. Adam's respiratory ailment had caused her to miss so much work, and there were bills to pay; the creditors didn't have much sympathy, even when your two-year-old was sick. There were more bills, in fact. Then Ally had broken another pair of glasses, and Alice had to stretch a tight budget even further. By the time Emily had snuck off during her own after-first-communion-reception and tried to climb a tree in her long, white dress - ending up with a greenstick fracture in her arm - Alice knew a few double shifts were in her future.

Today she was covering for Jan on the PM shift before pulling her own graveyard assignment, and Alice found herself hoping for some action to keep her awake. She was only halfway through the first shift, and was about to drop already. When her supervisor scurried past the door, shouting, "They need you in OR-2," Alice was instantly relieved. OR-2 meant that she was probably needed to operate the C-Arm. The fluoroscopic unit was used for live x-ray images. Surgeons could see, in real time, how a bone looked after it was pinned, for example. She frowned as she walked quickly toward the bank of elevators. Six o'clock was significantly late enough to indicate that this was not an elective procedure, nor one that could wait for the next day. She felt her Catholic guilt gene kick in during the ride up to surgical; while she welcomed activity that would keep her awake, Alice didn't wish harm on anyone, and she felt badly about her initial reaction.

She hurried past other hospital employees and reached the operating suite in record time, stepping inside the anteroom to don a lead apron, hat, mask, and booties before she entered OR-2. She adjusted a mask around her face and wandered to the front of the anteroom, to look through the window and get a clue what she might be working on. The eyes above her mask grew wide, and the hands tying strings behind her neck stilled. "Holy Mother of God," she breathed, letting one hand drop so that she could make the sign of the cross over her chest.

She started as she realized that Dr. Davidoff was looking at her through the window, and the intercom to the anteroom crackled. "Alice! Get in here! These guys can't hold 'em forever!"

As she entered, her eyes, which had been glued to the pitchfork, finally took in the whole picture. The patients - there were actually two of them - sat on one of the slender ambulance gurneys, facing each other, with one quite literally sitting on the lap of the other while orderlies stood on each side, to coordinate the movement of the gurney. Another male hospital employee - a nurse, she thought - stood behind the patient from whose back the pitchfork protruded. His job was apparently to keep the man in a vertical position, so he was either unconscious or dead. She saw no evidence that life-sustaining measures had been taken, so she was betting on dead. The nurse's hands pressed against the man's upper back, on either side of the pitchfork.

Facing this man, and taped to him, was another, smaller man. She saw the chest tubes sticking out of his side, and knew that this one, at least, was still alive. Her heart dropped as she realized that he also was conscious. His curly head rested on the first man's shoulder - there was nowhere else for it to lay - and it was turned away from the dead man's face, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and facing the window. Another nurse supported his back, and Alice could see her lips moving as she spoke quietly to him. The occasional shudder that ran through his body made everyone in the room tense, and Alice knew she had to hurry. His eyes flickered open; he had probably been sedated, but the doctors would need him conscious as long as possible. Whatever reality he inhabited at the moment had to be hell.

It was all Alice could do not to run for the C-Arm as she pushed her way into OR-2. Without the separation of the glass window, she could hear an occasional sob break lose from the conscious man stuck to the dead one. She almost started crying herself as she took in the expression in his dark eyes and distinguished his actual words, muffled under an oxygen mask. "Please get him off me. Please get him off me."

Alice was grateful that Joan was working the OR this evening; she was good at bringing the heavy equipment into the OR and getting it plugged in and ready to go. Joan had also made sure that all of the non-sterile personnel had lead gowns on and that the lead portable barrier was brought in for the sterile personnel to stand behind during Imaging, which would expiate things considerably. The big difference in the set-up that evening, Alice noted, was the sterile plastic sheeting covered both sides of the C on the C-Arm unit. She realized why that was as soon as Dr. Davidoff started speaking.

"I need placement images," ordered the doctor. "We need to see how much of the pitchfork is in this guy. He indicated Macedo with a tilt of his head. "Don't worry so much about that one right now. Get me obliques side-to-side and front-to-back. And do it fast, dammit."

_Now that_, Alice thought as she fired up the imaging unit, _is extraneous information. _She turned the C sideways so that she could carefully bring the semicircle in and around the two men strapped together. The tricky part would be trying to position the equipment so that she could get a clear shot through both men without having the people holding them up also in the image. It was without a doubt one of the most challenging operations she'd ever performed, and as she finished, she was acutely aware of all eyes on the image she'd generated. Working quickly, she got the lateral view, and swiftly withdrew the C-arm, leaving the monitors in the room with their gruesome images, for the doctor's reference as he proceeded with his repair.

As she pushed out of the room, she was aware of the team moving in, cutting the tape strapping the two men together. She paused at the window in the anteroom, watching, as Dr. Davidoff directed his team. "All right, we're going to separate."

He waited until team members positioned themselves behind each man, getting a grip on their upper arms and shoulders, and gave the command. "OK – do we have the O-neg going? Pull them apart, steadily, not too fast, not too slow – now." They had to pull at an angle; the pitchfork had actually entered the left side of the dead man's back, instead of straight in. The door was still open slightly and she could hear the sickening sucking sound even on the other side of the window, and winced as the young man slumped, unconscious, in the attendants' arms, even as others rushed forward to grab his legs and help to lay him on the operating table. The remainder of the team laid the dead man on a gurney, and Alice stood aside as they came through the door, pushing their macabre cargo. The OR was now bustling, and Alice turned her attention back to the young man, now lying pale and lifeless on the operating table.

"He's not breathing!" she heard a nurse exclaim, and as she stood there, Alice sent a little prayer heavenward.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

A scant five hours after the call, Alan strode down the hospital hallway, feeling the air-conditioned air rushing against the moisture on his skin. Even at night, the summer air in Kansas City was oppressive, and felt like a warm damp washcloth against the skin as soon as one stepped outside. It got warm in a hurry, especially when a person was jogging – through the airport, outside to a cab, from the cab to the hospital doors, lugging a carry-on with God-only-knew-what inside it; his packing job had been haphazard at best. Winded, and feeling the eyes of hospital personnel on him – it was after midnight, and after visiting hours - he'd slowed his jog to a stride as he maneuvered the halls of the hospital, not slowing until he got to the room he wanted.

He paused as he took in the sight of the figure in the far bed through the doorway, and pushed into the room, his head swiveling to the left as he picked up the other patient in his peripheral vision. Don stared back at him, a surprised look fighting with the pain and fatigue in his face. "How did you get here so fast?"

Alan stepped toward him. "Someone in Washington pulled some strings, and got me on a flight that was supposed to be full. I threw some things together and went, almost as soon as I got the call." He eyed Don with concern. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," replied Don, stoically, with pain in a voice that said he was anything but. "Nothing a few stitches wouldn't fix."

Alan eyed the unit of blood on his IV pole and the bandages on his arms and head. "Several stitches, from the looks of it." He looked over at the other figure in the bed against the window. Charlie appeared to be sleeping, but the oxygen mask on his face and the collection of tubes emanating from him told Alan there was more to it than that. He looked at Don again, his voice shaking a bit. "And Charlie?"

Don looked back at him, with a dark expression in his eyes that Alan couldn't quite read. "I'm not sure yet. They had him in surgery and under observation in recovery for several hours - they just brought him in a little while ago. The doctor is supposed to come up any time now – he got tied up in another surgery after Charlie." His gaze followed his father as Alan turned and stepped over to Charlie's bedside for a closer look, and then, satisfied that his younger son was breathing steadily, moved back and gave Don's shoulder a squeeze.

"What happened?" asked Alan, quietly.

Don's eyes traveled over to Charlie and rested on the still figure with a haunted expression. "It was a set-up. Macedo got to Penfield somehow, and had him set up the meeting and lure Charlie out here. They grabbed him at the airport – I was hung up inside waiting for luggage, and Charlie went out the curb to hold our ride. We tracked them out a remote farmhouse that belonged to a psychiatrist who was treating Penfield. When I got there, they had Charlie in the barn. They started shooting, I got hit trying to go in -," he broke off suddenly, his eyes on the doorway.

Alan realized he'd been gripping the rail of Don's bed with white knuckles, and he took a breath and released his hand as he saw two doctors enter, one of them carrying a folder, looking exhausted. He held out his hand. "I'm Doctor Davidoff, I operated on Charles Eppes."

His raised eyebrows indicated that he was awaiting an introduction, and Alan supplied it. "Alan Eppes. I'm Charlie's and Don's father."

Davidoff nodded with satisfaction at the confirmation he was addressing family members, and indicated his partner, a second year resident, who inclined his head briefly, and spoke in a smooth voice with a slight accent. "I'm Doctor Raghib; I will be following both of your sons through their follow-up care."

Davidoff stepped over to a panel mounted on the wall and stuck up a film that looked like an X-ray, and flipped the light on. Alan blinked, trying to figure out what on earth he was looking at. "Mr. Eppes was very fortunate."

"Dr. Eppes," corrected Alan automatically, "but just call him Charlie." He narrowed his eyes. "What is that?"

"We took an image of the pitchfork while it was still inside him," said Davidoff, and a look of alarm crossed his face as Alan blanched and waved a hand weakly beside him, searching for the bedrail for support as he stared, aghast, at the picture. Raghib and Davidoff both lunged forward, and caught his arms, guiding Alan into a chair next to Don's bed.

"Pitchfork?" asked Alan weakly, as he sank into the seat with shaking legs.

"I'm sorry," said Davidoff, his keen eyes assessing the older man as he spoke. "I thought you knew."

Alan took a deep shaky breath, and turned to look at Don, who gazed back, misery in his dark eyes. "I was starting to tell you. Macedo was shooting at me, and Charlie jumped him, trying to stop him. Macedo stumbled backwards and fell onto the pitchfork-," his voice trailed off for a moment as the horror of the scene reflected in his eyes, and then he swallowed hard and continued. "He pulled Charlie with him, and the pitchfork went through him and into Charlie. They couldn't pull it out until they got to the hospital."

Alan stared. "You mean – they were – dear God, was Charlie aware?"

Don bowed his head, his words halting. "Yeah – he was – awake – during the trip."

Silence descended in the room, and Davidoff cleared his throat. "What you see on the screen is an image we took prior to surgery." He waited until the two men's eyes drifted back to the panel. "The pitchfork had four tines, the outer two slightly longer than the center two. In addition, one of the center two tines was broken. If it hadn't been, your son would not be with us now."

Don wouldn't have thought it possible, but Alan turned even paler, and he watched him anxiously, out of the corner of his eye, as Davidoff stepped over to the image, pointing to it as he continued. "The pitchfork went in at an angle, which was also fortunate. One of the longer outside tines went in more deeply – here – and pierced Charlie's left lung. The tine next to it was broken; because of that it only punctured the skin and bruised his breastbone – otherwise it would have likely hit the pulmonary artery. The remaining two tines didn't penetrate as deeply because of the angle – the outer one merely punctured the skin of his chest. The inner tine did not pierce the right lung, but it did puncture the lining around it, causing the lung to collapse. For a few brief moments after we removed the pitchfork, both lungs had collapsed and your son stopped breathing, until the tubes that we had previously inserted in his chest equalized the pressure, and the lungs began to re-inflate. We were then able to do surgery to repair the damage."

He paused, taking in the glazed look in Alan's eyes, and the darkness in Don's. "As bad as that sounds, the damage is relatively minor. The worst of it was the pierced lung, and the injury was small, shallow, and easily repaired; we were able to do micro-surgery without cracking the rib cage. What we are most concerned about at this point is infection. The pitchfork was dirty, and had obviously blood and pieces of tissue from the other man." He stopped for a moment; his audience had most decidedly taken a turn for the worse at his last statement; both looked ill.

Davidoff changed the subject. "Then of course, there is the knee." Both of them looked at him blankly, and he sighed to himself. Apparently, that was news also. "The kneecap of his left knee was shattered. We currently have it immobilized, but when he is stable, we'll need to perform surgery to remove any small pieces, and use pins and wires to repair what we can. He'll be on crutches for a while, and will need to wear a brace; he will also require some physical therapy. In about 6 months, he faces additional surgery to remove the hardware." He could tell his listeners were getting shell-shocked, so he cut to the chase. "We'll go over all that with you later. For now, we are simply concerned with getting his incisions and wounds to heal." He looked at Don. "The same goes for you. Dr. Raghib will be looking after both of you."

Raghib spoke, looking at Don. "I understand from the emergency room doctor that you have sustained several gunshot wounds. They are all soft-tissue wounds, although you did sustain a concussion from the wound to your head." Don was painfully aware of Alan's eyes turning toward him in horror, as he realized how close that bullet, in particular, had come to ending his oldest son's life. He wasn't sure how much more of this his father could take. He glanced at Alan, almost guiltily, and then back at Raghib.

"…but your arm sustained no fracture, although the bone is bruised," Raghib was saying. "The injury to your hamstring is minor, although you will limp for awhile. For the next two days, due to the concussion, you will not be allowed out of your bed without assistance."

Don nodded, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was, wishing they would go. He was tired of their assessments, their descriptions of carnage. He blinked, his eyelids suddenly heavy, and was vaguely aware of his father standing and shaking hands, and the men heading toward the door. His pain medication was kicking in, and in the back of his mind, he knew now that his father was here, he was at last allowing himself to relax his guard. As he did, fatigue reached up with dark soft arms, and finally pulled him into sleep, deep and hypnotic.

End Chapter 29


	30. Always In My Heart

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****30:**** Always in my Heart**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Daylight was filtering into the room when Don woke again. He stirred, blinking sleepily, his brows drawn slightly as he felt the return of pain, and he turned his head as he sensed movement. Alan was crossing the floor toward him. He looked exhausted, and settled himself wearily into the chair by Donnie's bed.

"How-," Don croaked, his voice still hoarse from talking so much the day before, and tried again. "How's he doing?"

"The doctor was just here," Alan replied, and Don wondered to himself fleetingly how he'd managed to sleep through that. "Charlie's temperature is up. They took some blood last night and some more just now." He looked at Don. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," lied Don. His head wasn't aching as badly as yesterday, but the bullet wounds were throbbing. He had a suspicion that his pain medication was wearing off, a suspicion that was confirmed as he glanced at his nearly empty IV. There was only one there now; his transfusion bag had been removed. "Did he wake up?"

Alan hesitated just a moment, glancing over at the motionless curly head; then spoke quietly. "Yes. Just briefly a couple of times. He wasn't awake long, but he still seemed pretty rattled." He looked back at Don. "I meant to tell you – Ana is coming here. I told her it wasn't necessary, but she insisted. She would have been here already if she could have gotten on a flight – they were all overbooked. The first one she could get was tomorrow."

"Huh," said Don, noncommittally, but inside he felt his heart leap a little. Almost at the same moment, he felt a wave of chagrin. He hadn't seen her in months, and she'd be greeted by an invalid in a hospital gown.

Alan quirked an eyebrow. "That's all you have to say?"

Don flushed a little. "Well, I'm not exactly looking my best here."

Some of the tension in Alan's face dissipated, as he allowed himself a bit of a smile. "Something tells me that she probably won't care." He stood. "I'm going to go forage for something to eat. I'll be back in a bit." Some of the worry crept back in his face as he glanced at Charlie. "If he wakes up, tell him I'll be right back."

"Right." Don followed his gaze, eyeing Charlie for a moment, his gut tightening as he remembered the events of the day before. He devoutly hoped they had Charlie on the good pain meds, and tranquilizers to boot – anything to take the edge off until he was strong enough to deal with what he'd been through.

He leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes, but they popped open again almost immediately as he heard a low moan from across the room. He looked anxiously at Charlie, who was stirring, his eyes flickering open, his face puckered with pain. "Charlie?"

The eyes shut again, and another moan drifted out. Don glanced at the door, then at his call button, then back at Charlie. He knew he wasn't supposed to get out of bed, but…

Another moan and he was releasing the catch on the bed rail, pushing himself upright, legs swinging over the side of the bed, and onto his feet. The room twisted around him, and he grabbed for side of the bed, muttering, "Jesus!" The room righted itself, and he realized that his hospital gown was by no means covering what it was supposed to, and he yanked it down hurriedly, and wincing, limped over to the chair by Charlie's bed, dragging his IV stand, lowering himself gingerly onto the seat. "Charlie?"

The dark eyes flickered open again over the oxygen mask, and the vestiges of horror spilled out of them, directly into Don's heart. "Hey, Buddy," he said, "you okay?"

Charlie blinked, and stretched out a hand, and Don took it, as it gripped his convulsively. He looked at Charlie anxiously, his face was flushed, and his eyes were glittering with fever. His hand felt hot, and Don felt his heart drop another notch – Charlie was burning up. He turned at a sound behind him, and felt a bit of relief at the sight of a nurse, accompanied by a young bespectacled intern, who frowned at him.

"You aren't supposed to be out of bed," she said primly, clutching her clipboard to her chest. She was thin, her hair in an uptight bun that matched the expression on her face.

"He woke up," said Don unnecessarily, as the nurse proceed to change his IV bag, efficiently, and wisely silent. He tried to divert attention to Charlie. "I think he needs pain medication."

The intern nodded. "He's due, and we're going to change antibiotics." She peered into Charlie's glassy eyes. "How are you feeling?"

Don looked back at him, and was surprised to hear Charlie actually get out a reply. It was soft, and muffled by the oxygen mask, but it was a response. "Okay." It also couldn't have been further from the truth.

The nurse padded around to the other side of the bed and took a temperature reading from Charlie's ear, as the intern pursed her lips and looked at her charts. "You'll be relieved to know, the other victim came back relatively clean. No hepatitis, no HIV, nothing contagious." She caught the puzzled frown on Charlie's face, and elaborated, in a businesslike tone. "They cleaned your wounds as much as possible, but there was contact with blood and there were likely tiny pieces of tissue that they couldn't get. That's why we ran the tests."

Don caught the look of horror dawning on Charlie's face, and muttered with a clenched jaw, "He really doesn't need to hear that right now."

She looked at him surprised. "I would think that he'd want to know-,"

Charlie's voice broke through, louder in spite of the mask, wheezing a little, repulsed. "You mean he's _inside_ me?" He looked wildly at Don, his eyes filled with revulsion, and his grip tightened. "He's **INSIDE ME**?"

He was breathing heavily now, and the intern regarded him with alarm. "Hurry up with the meds," she said, in an aside to the nurse. "Get the sedative going first."

"Nice," muttered Don, angrily, in his own aside to the intern. "Where'd you learn your bedside manner?" He leaned over his brother, trying to catch his gaze, which was now fixed wide-eyed on the ceiling, as Charlie breathed heavily, laboriously, into the oxygen mask. "It's okay, Buddy, I'm sure they got it all, they probably used one of those suction things…," He paused helplessly, trying to figure out how to undo the damage. The sedative began to sink in; Charlie still wasn't meeting his eyes, but his lids dropped just a bit, and his breathing began to slow.

For several long minutes, Don held his hand, again murmuring softly, until the lids drooped shut, and he finally relaxed his grip, and rose, glaring at the intern, who had been standing rigidly by, watching speechlessly. "I'll make you a deal," Don said, his voice tight as he shuffled back toward his side of the room. "You stay away from my brother, and I'll stay in my bed."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Several hours later, Don found himself chafing in that bed, waiting impatiently. Charlie's condition had deteriorated; he was delirious from the combination of fever and the pain medication, and kept moaning and grabbing at his chest. Don wasn't sure if he was feeling for a body that was no longer there, or trying to remove the remnants of the other man that Charlie was convinced were still inside him, but there was no question – his brother was in a bad place, both in his mind and body. A few moments earlier, another intern had returned accompanied by a hospital employee, and they had taken Charlie for a lung X-ray. Alan had gone with them, leaving Don alone to stew.

And stew he did. He was glad – passionately glad - that Macedo was dead, and was wishing mightily that he'd done in Penfield when he had the chance. He didn't care about the repercussions – the damage to his soul that killing the man would have done. Someday, he might have, but not now – it was all too awful, too fresh in his mind, and hate overwhelmed him. He could still hear Penfield's derisive laugh as they wheeled Charlie to the ambulance, and his fingers curled, as he imagined them around the insufferable geek's neck. Charlie's mind wasn't the only one in a dark place, at the moment.

He was so submerged in his black thoughts that he nearly leapt out of his skin at the knock at the door, and the feminine "Hello?" that came with it. For a moment, he thought it was Ana, even though she wasn't due until the next day, but his pounding heart quieted a little as he saw a honey-colored head peek in, instead of dark, and cornflower-blue eyes, instead of brown.

Lydia Campbell stepped in tentatively, her observant eyes catching the glint of some dark and dangerous in the agent's eyes before it vanished, carefully concealed by a bland expression. "Agent Eppes. Is this a bad time?" She looked uncertainly toward the space where Charlie's bed should be. "I was told you were both in the same room."

"No, it's fine," Don assured her, eyeing the petite figure as she moved into the room to face him. "They took Charlie to get an X-ray."

He saw something flit over her face that looked suspiciously like disappointment, and immediately, his full attention was engaged, and he watched her curiously. "How are you – how is your daughter?"

"Oh," she said, smiling a little, "Gaby's fine - we're fine. They kept her overnight for observation – they're going to release her soon. I just thought I'd come by and say thank you, and see how you both were doing." Her expression changed, and anxiety clouded the blue eyes. They were a stunning color, actually – a soft cornflower with hints of navy. "How is your brother?"

Don's gaze was speculative. Was this polite interest, or something more, he wondered? "Actually, he's fighting an infection," he admitted. "That's why they took him for another X-ray. The surgery went pretty well, though – he had one collapsed lung, and the other was actually punctured, and his kneecap was shattered. He's, uh, he's a little out of it right now."

"I can imagine," she said, softly. "He didn't seem like someone who would have been mixed up with criminals – this must have been very hard for him."

Don smiled grimly at her statement. It didn't go unnoticed that she was fishing a little – looking for more information. "Actually no, that's more my department. Charlie is a math professor at CalSci - we're from L.A."

Her eyebrows rose, and she looked genuinely surprised. Don hesitated, wondering how much information he should give her – he didn't know her after all. If his suspicions were correct, however, and there was something there – a hint of feeling for Charlie…

"Do you remember reading about an incident in the papers last fall?" he asked, jumping in before he finished the thought. "About a man who single-handedly brought down a drug cartel by sabotaging their computer system?"

Recognition dawned in her eyes, and her brow furrowed as she concentrated. "Yes – I remember – he funneled all of the money to charities and orphanages – it was a big story – I -," she broke off and stared at Don in shock. "Oh my God – that was _him_?"

Don smiled; his eyes full of soft pride. "Yeah, that was him." His expression darkened. "Penfield – your patient – was part of that scheme, and part of what happened yesterday – it was about retribution for what happened before."

She frowned. "Retribution? I thought the papers said that the leader of the cartel – Macedo? – was killed trying to escape."

Don was silent, and her eyes grew wide. "Oh -," she managed. "The man who was killed yesterday – he wasn't –,"

"I can't tell you," Don replied evenly, looking into her eyes. "Not officially. But it's safe to say that threat is gone now." He'd told her more than he should have, but somehow, he felt it necessary – he couldn't have her thinking that getting to know his brother might somehow be dangerous. And God knows, after what she and her daughter had gone through, she had earned the right to understand some of it. His heart dipped suddenly, as he thought of her husband – she had been married – what kind of implications did that hold? "I'm sorry about your husband."

She looked away, an expression of pain on her face, and her lower lip trembled just a bit. "Thank you – it's – I – well, we were separated, but we were on decent terms, and he was Gaby's father – it…," her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat, and looked back at him, bleakly. "It was all a little – shocking."

He gazed back at her, with sympathy. "I know. I wanted to tell you – you were pretty impressive yesterday – you kept your head in the middle of all that – you should be proud of yourself."

She smiled, and it conflicted with the moisture in her eyes, and the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. "Actually, I was scared to death." She looked up, her expression suddenly serious. "But when the life of someone you love is at stake, you act first and think later – you do what you have to, you know?"

Don nodded, and his eyes met hers as he smiled. "Yeah, I think I do."

A silence descended, and she sighed, casting an unconscious glance at the other side of the room. "Well, I suppose I should go – I'm sorry I missed him – please tell him I stopped by."

Don's heart fell – it didn't sound as though she meant to come back. "He's actually probably not up to visitors right now – but I'm sure he'd like to see you when he is. If you get a chance, you could stop by in a day or two – you're always welcome."

Her face lightened a little. "Yes, okay – maybe I'll do that. My sister's coming back from her tour tonight – I'd be able to leave Gaby with her -,"

"Gaby's welcome too," interjected Don, impulsively. "That is, if you didn't think this would bother her." He waved his hand vaguely at the room, his IV. He looked at her. "I did want to ask you – you're a psychiatrist, right? I think it would be good for Charlie to talk to someone about what happened – maybe you could recommend a doctor?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

It was her turn to look speculative. "Of course," she said, and they traded a knowing look. "That was a very traumatic experience – I'd be surprised if his attending physician didn't recommend that. I'll make sure to leave a reference with the staff." She smiled at him as she left, and he smiled back, suddenly ridiculously happy. He settled back against his pillow with a sigh, wondering if the exchange had meant what he thought it had, and hoping it did.

End Chapter 30


	31. Talk to Me

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****31:****Talk to Me**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Things were looking up, Don thought to himself, the next morning. They couldn't have gotten any worse.

Charlie had been simply heartbreaking the day before. His fever had gotten to 104 degrees F, and he twisted and thrashed in the throes of delirium, plagued by horrifying dreams, alternately moaning and sobbing. Finally, as evening approached, the new antibiotic had begun to kick in, and the dreams subsided. Charlie had dropped off into a deep sleep, and after thirty-eight hours without rest, Alan had staggered off to find a cab and a hotel room.

It was now mid-morning, and Alan had re-appeared looking much more himself, and Charlie was actually conscious, and rational. He was still weak as a kitten, was in obvious pain, and had managed only tea at breakfast. Dr. Raghib, however, was happy with his progress, and Don was happy himself to look into Charlie's eyes, and see his brother looking back.

Don's heart lifted yet another notch, when he heard Lydia's voice at the doorway, and saw Charlie's eyes immediately track toward it. He took in the look on Charlie's face, trying to discern if there was interest there. Don nodded at Lydia as she stepped in holding Gaby and greeted them, listening as Alan returned the greeting warmly, but his eyes were on Charlie. He glanced at Alan, and saw his father watching him, and he sat up in his bed. "Hey Dad, I'm allowed out of bed today, and they encouraged me to get a walk in. Maybe you want to come with me?"

Alan shot a glance at Charlie, and then back at Don. Don could almost see the wheels turning as Alan tried to read the situation, but his father played along. "Okay, sure."

Lydia turned away as Don maneuvered; trying to make a graceful exit from the bed in his hospital gown, and her eyes met Charlie's as she shifted Gaby on her hip. "Hi," she said, smiling, with a pretty, self-conscious blush. "I'm Lydia Campbell – I guess I thought I should introduce myself, since we've already kissed."

Don and Alan, halfway out of the room, stopped short at that, and turned, staring, but thankfully her back was turned to them. Don collected himself first and yanked hard on Alan's arm, limping forward, and Alan followed him, with another glance toward Charlie, who had a flush in his pale cheeks.

Lydia was stammering, and blushing in earnest. '_Oh, God_,' she thought, '_I can't believe I just said that_.' "I mean – I'm sorry -,"

"Don't be," replied Charlie softly. He was inexplicably, abruptly, much less aware of the pain, but acutely aware that he probably looked like hell. He looked into the luminous blue eyes, and had a sudden vivid recollection of those soft, coral-colored lips against his – something that hadn't registered at the time, considering the situation, but certainly did now.

"And this is Gaby," said Lydia, still desperately trying to change the subject. Gaby was eyeing him curiously, her eyes on the tape that held his IV in place, her eyes wide. She stretched out a hand toward him. "Ow-wee," she said gravely, and Charlie smiled back at her, the expression beating back a little of the darkness in his eyes.

"Hello, Gaby," he said, and Lydia moved forward as Gaby cooed in delight.

"Eee," she crowed, and stretched out her little hand toward Charlie's dark curls.

Lydia gathered in her arm, with a laugh. "I think she likes your hair." '_She's not the only one_,' said a little voice inside her, which she vainly tried to push down. '_You don't even know him_,' she scolded herself. '_You should know better than anyone that these feelings are probably just a rebound from a stressful situation. It doesn't mean anything - it's too soon after Bill…_,' Her thoughts faltered as she looked into his eyes. They were beautiful eyes – dark, intelligent – he was physically, and she suspected, intellectually, so very different from her husband…She realized she was staring and shook herself, rushing too fast into her next sentence. "I, ah, I suppose your brother told you I'm a psychiatrist – I just wanted to let you know – if you needed to talk to someone, I'd be happy to – it's the least I could do-,"

Charlie's heart dipped with an odd twinge of disappointment. She was here on a professional visit, then. '_Of course, what did you expect?_' he chided himself. Still, anything to have an excuse to talk to her again… "Yeah," he said, "I – that would be good."

"Really?" She tried to cover her exclamation of surprise, her excitement, and her voice came out far too businesslike. "I mean, of course – I can set something up for later today to start, if you like. How does one o'clock sound?"

"One o'clock is good," replied Charlie, and a ghost of a smile played around his lips. "I'm not going anywhere."

She laughed, and it was one of the prettiest sounds Charlie had ever heard. "Okay, then," she said, and her smile faded into something more serious, more gentle. "I'm glad you're feeling better. I'll talk to you later."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The rest of the day just got better as far as Don was concerned. Ana showed up at around 11:30, and if Don had any reservations about his appearance, she put them to rest. One look, and she uttered a soft "Ai," and impulsively hugged him, and he was deeply thankful that he'd at least had a sponge bath that day. He felt a wave of something hit him as soon as she walked in the room, as if all the phone conversations had set up layer upon layer of anticipation; and to see her in person felt almost unbearably good. He'd never felt this way, this deeply about any woman before – it was scary and wonderful, at the same time. She clucked and fussed over him; and a bit over Charlie too, so he wouldn't feel left out. Alan just sat there with an indulgent smile, soaking it in.

His father got takeout for lunch, Kansas City barbecue, and they had an impromptu picnic in the room – except for Charlie, who wasn't up to real food yet. He had managed to get himself a little more upright, although the movement made lines of pain appear in his face again, and sat quietly, toying with his Jell-O, while the others laughed and chatted. Truthfully, as one o'clock approached, he was wishing he hadn't made arrangements to talk to Lydia – Dr. Campbell, he reminded himself.

His gut reaction, the impulse to see her again, had overridden common sense. Don had told him pieces of the story that he didn't know early that morning, before Alan had shown up, and Charlie knew that she and her husband had been separated, and that Macedo had killed the man. That had just happened, he told himself – she probably wasn't ready for, or looking for, a relationship. In fact, he wasn't sure he was – Amita was still a constant ache in his heart, a little fainter, a little more bearable every day, but always there. He still felt that her death was his fault, that it was his association with her that had gotten her killed, and to move on without her somehow felt traitorous.

For that matter, he'd nearly gotten Lydia killed, before he'd even gotten a chance to know her. His track record certainly wasn't very good; maybe it was better for everyone if he stayed away from relationships, period. He already had one mistress in his life – one he could never hurt – math. That relationship was a safe haven – constant, always there, something to which he could easily devote his life, and no one would question it. He could feel the pull of his chalkboards even as he sat there, listening to the life in the room, seeing the happiness in his brother's eyes. Don was another person who'd nearly been killed because of him – yes, it would be better, Charlie decided; if he just backed away from everyone, retreated quietly into academia, and let Don move on with a new life.

That decision made, he was dreading one o'clock. He should have picked someone impartial to talk to instead of her, to go through the motions to put his father's mind at rest, and be done with it. Now he was facing what should be a frank, if not soul-baring, discussion with a woman who made his heart beat uncomfortably fast, who probably didn't feel that way about him at all, and who he shouldn't pursue, even if she did.

Don dumped part of his lunch tray into the plastic bag that had held the takeout, and handed it to his father. "Here, better get rid of that – I don't want the nurse yelling at me for eating what I wasn't supposed to."

Ana dimpled, teasing him. "Hiding evidence, Agent Eppes? I'm surprised at you."

He smiled at her, and glanced at the clock. "How about we take a walk down the hall – there's an area where we can sit and talk." He raised an eyebrow at Alan meaningfully; they both knew Charlie had an appointment with Lydia coming up.

Alan nodded, and turned toward the door with the bag. "I'll be back in a while, Charlie," he said, "take your time."

Ana followed him out the door, allowing Don to get out of bed with a modicum of decency, and put on his robe. He paused in mid-limp and looked at Charlie, and his heart contracted. Charlie looked miserable, hunched, his dark eyes filled with pain. "Dad's right," Don said. "Take your time."

Charlie looked down at his hands. "I don't expect it will take all that long," he said quietly.

Don frowned, puzzled. Charlie had actually had a spark in his eye when Lydia had left that morning, and now he looked as though he was going to meet a firing squad. Nerves, maybe. What he was about to discuss certainly was not very pleasant. He'd seen that look in Charlie's eye before, when he'd been under extreme stress – that look of retreat, that "P vs. NP" look, that said that his brother was on the verge of taking flight from the world. "You okay?"

Charlie leaned back and closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said softly. "Just tired."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Lydia walked out after her session with Charlie the next day, reflecting that the second session had gone a bit better than the one the day before. During the first session, it had taken the better part of a half-hour to really get him to open up, to talk about anything substantial, but after that, they'd talked for an hour, well over what she usually allotted for a patient – and far too long for Charlie – he'd been exhausted by the end of it.

She had finally gotten him to open up a little when she stopped being a doctor. There was nothing "normal" or "usual" about this doctor-patient relationship. As a co-victim herself, she had no business acting as his therapist. So she started talking about herself, and her own experiences with Macedo and Penfield. "Maybe we can help each other," she had suggested, and Charlie had seemed more receptive to a binary relationship. Lydia had felt a bit of the weight lift from her own shoulders, as well. Today, it had come a little more easily from the start, but there was still a reservation to him, a distance, in spite of the fact that she was no longer conducting their time together as a formal session. He spoke only of the recent events, and skirted around anything that spoke to his outlook on life in general – anything that would reveal who he was as a person, no matter how hard she tried to steer him that way.

Hell, who was she kidding? She was intensely curious about him, dying to get to know him better, and he was keeping a piece of himself away from her. The mystery was killing her, and she knew she was running out of excuses to see him. Bill's funeral was tomorrow- they had nothing set up. The day after, Charlie was scheduled for surgery on his knee, so there would be no appointment that day. Soon he would leave Kansas City. She had one appointment, two maybe, and he would be gone. The thought left an unaccountable ache in her heart, and she had no idea of what to do about it.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Ana and Don sat in the waiting area down the hall, and Ana caught a glimpse of Lydia as she made her way down the hall. "She's gone," she said. "I wonder how it went."

Don scratched his head. "I don't know. I can't figure him out. I thought maybe he was interested in her, but now I'm not sure." Actually, he thought guiltily, he hadn't tried to decipher his brother as hard as he could have. He'd spent a good portion of the last day out of the room, visiting with Ana. A lot of that time, Charlie was sleeping anyway, he'd rationalized to himself. Don suddenly wished, though, that he'd spent more of that time with him. Maybe tonight, after everyone had gone, they could talk. He sighed. "It's too bad about the vacation. I think Charlie could have used it – he really liked it there."

Ana smiled, her eyes glinting mischievously. "And who says we are not going on vacation?" she taunted.

Don stared at her. "Well, I'm not exactly doing hurdles here. And Charlie – he's having surgery done on his knee the day after tomorrow – he'll be in a brace, on crutches-,"

She rose, waving a finger at him, laughing. "I have a few ideas of my own, you know. You just leave it to me." She held out her hand. "Now come on – let's go visit with your brother."

He took her hand and rose, and smiled down at her. "And what's in if for me?" he murmured, teasingly.

She lifted her face to his and gave him a long, slow kiss. "Will this do?" she whispered back.

"Oh, yes, Doctor," Don murmured, "that will do nicely." He leaned down, and kissed her deeply. He was battered, bruised, his wounds still painful; he could still hardly stand straight, and he thought to himself that he had never felt better in his life.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End Chapter 31


	32. That's What Friends Are For

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 32: That's What Friends are For**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

With everyone in the hospital room - the two patients, their father and Ana - it was easy for Charlie to withdraw into himself and not be noticed. He was still weak, and tired from his post-pitchfork infection; not to mention his two sessions with Lyd... with Dr. Campbell. His chest tubes had been removed the day before and a chest x-ray this morning had indicated that his punctured lung was mostly intact again, but Charlie was not looking forward to surgery on his knee the next day, anyway. The doctors had told him it could take as long as four hours, or as few as one. They were aiming for the least amount of time as possible, reluctant to compromise his airway any longer than necessary. Even after he endured yet another procedure, Charlie was faced with six weeks on crutches, in a brace, before he began up to six months of therapy. The Grand Prize for surviving all of that was another surgery, to remove everything they were putting in tomorrow morning. It was bleak, and it was depressing, and it made Charlie wonder if he would ever be free from Macedo. That thought always led to the inevitable truth that he would not, for then he would remember that bits and pieces of that black heart were settling in their new home even now. Macedo's tissue was melding with his own, and when Charlie faced the truth of that, he wanted to die.

Don's doctors had offered to release him tomorrow, after a visit to PT, and Charlie hoped his brother took them up on it. As grateful as he was that they were in the same room and he could look over and see that Don was still alive as often as he needed to, he could use an afternoon of morphine and privacy. In that order. If Don was released, Ana would take him back to the hotel and tuck him in, and stay with him. Charlie still had his father to contend with, but Alan was practiced at picking up on Charlie's moods. He would sit unobtrusively nearby, a book in his lap, and let Charlie sleep.

At least, Charlie hoped so.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Ana didn't know Charlie as well as she had come to know Don, but she wasn't brain-dead. She could see him lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling; and she could hear him occasionally sighing. When Don's dinner tray and Charlie's clear broth were delivered, Ana stood to set things up for Don while Alan moved to Charlie's bedside. Ana shook open a napkin and leaned to tuck it into the neck of Don's hospital gown. He started to protest, but she leaned over a little farther, distracting him with the breasts threatening to spill from her summer tank top, and began to speak in a low voice. "I'm going to take your father to the cafeteria for some dinner, so you and Charlie can be alone. I think he's on overload."

Don tore his eyes away from the view and glanced sideways at his brother. Charlie was elevated in the bed, stirring his broth with disinterest, while Alan predictably fussed. Don's eyes narrowed and then he looked up at Ana. He smiled grimly. "Good idea. See if you can talk him into going back to the hotel, after. You can go, too, if it's easier; he's going to want to be here bright and early - the surgery is scheduled for 7."

Ana nodded, then smiled. She leaned just a tad further, and surprised him with a soft, sensuous kiss. The ache in his arms and leg disappeared, only to resurface in a different part of his anatomy. He parted his lips farther and began to reach for her, completely forgetting where they were, but Ana pulled away and straightened. She was breathing heavily and blushing like a schoolgirl, and Don had never seen anything so attractive in his life. She smoothed her hair self-consciously and whirled to face Charlie's bed. "My. It's quite warm in here. Mr. Eppes, perhaps you'd accompany me to the cafeteria? We should take our own evening meal."

Alan was returning from the bathroom with a fresh pitcher of water for Charlie, and had missed the floorshow. He frowned. "Warm? I was just thinking the air conditioning is cranked up too high in here. I hope you're not coming down with something, dear."

Don concentrated on his roast turkey and breathing, afraid to look anywhere. "I'm sure it's nothing a little break won't fix," answered Ana brightly. "Please come with me, Mr. Eppes. You need a few minutes, yourself."

Alan poured some of the water into Charlie's glass; then set the pitcher within his reach beside the tray of clear liquids. "Call me 'Alan'," he insisted, looking worriedly from son to son. "I don't feel right about leaving..."

The dark Colombian beauty walked toward the oldest Eppes, and Don looked up just in time to get an eyeful of her swaying hips. He nearly groaned aloud and looked quickly back at the congealing gravy. Ana let loose a 1000-watt smile as she sidled up to Alan. "Oh, please, Alan. We can tell the nurses where we're going." She actually fluttered her eyelashes, a little surprised that she even knew how. "Surely you won't send me off to dine alone?"

Alan smiled, and crooked an elbow in her direction. "Of course not, my dear. You're absolutely right. Shall we?"

She placed her hand on his arm lightly, and began a sashay to the door. "We'll see you soon," she called back over her shoulder to both patients. "Enjoy your meals!"

Don muttered something to his mashed potatoes and Charlie grunted. At least he was looking in their direction, though, and as the hospital door swung shut behind them, he turned his head toward his brother. "She's got Dad wrapped around her little finger already," he noted.

Now that she was safely gone, Don risked looking up again himself, and met Charlie's eyes. "Looks that way," he agreed.

Charlie held his gaze for a moment and Don could have sworn he saw the corner of his brother's mouth twitch. Charlie looked away then and started stirring his broth again. "Hell of a kisser," he commented dryly, and Don flushed furiously red and looked back at his own tray, grabbing for the glass of ice water.

Ana was right.

It was damn hot in that room.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Ana speared a piece of chicken off her Caesar salad and watched Alan attack his meatloaf. She truly liked all of the Eppes men - one in particular - and she didn't want to mess anything up. She was uncertain where the boundaries lay, for all of her past relationships had been nothing more than sexual liaisons of convenience. She hesitated another moment, then finally spoke, her unsure delivery in stark contrast to the show she had put on just a few minutes before in the hospital room. "Mr. ... Alan ... I wonder...that is..."

Alan looked up, finished chewing and hastily gulped a mouthful of water before he smiled. "My goodness, Ana, it can't be all that bad. I don't know what awful stories Don has been filling your head with, but I hardly ever bite!"

She blushed. "It's not that. Don only says wonderful things about you, sir, and from what I can see they're all accurate."

Alan arched an eyebrow. "Yes. Well, then. Am I to assume he has not told you about the time I rented a vampire costume on Halloween?"

Ana smiled uncertainly. "I don't believe so."

He leaned toward her over the table, waving an empty fork for emphasis. "Donnie was 11, and Charlie was 6. Don had been driving Margaret and me crazy for nearly a year, insisting he was old enough to baby-sit Charlie and we didn't have to hire one anymore when we went out. Oh, the tantrums he threw! Margaret was out of town for a few weeks, and he was always even worse, then. After a particularly ugly incident during which he made a 16-year-old neighbor girl cry like a baby, I'd had enough." Ana's smile was more genuine, even delighted, now, and Alan winked before he continued. "I told the boys I had a meeting on Halloween and arranged for them to tag along with some friends when they took their own children trick-or-treating. I asked Donnie if he thought he was grown up enough to get Charlie into bed after they got back. I said I might be as late as midnight."

"He obviously said 'yes'," Ana guessed.

Alan nodded. "Of course. Promised to make sure Charlie didn't eat too much candy, and help him take his bath, and everything. I almost felt a little guilty, but I'd already spent a bundle on the costume. And I knew Margaret would never let me do anything like this, so I had to strike while the iron was hot, as they say." Ana giggled, and Alan warmed to the story. "So. After the boys left to trick-or-treat, a neighbor lady who did make-up for one of the studios in Hollywood came over and helped me get ready. Slicked my hair back, covered my whole face with white and black make-up, and some red blood dripping out of my mouth..." Alan laughed. "I tell you, when I was all suited up and ready to go, I passed a mirror in the hall and scared myself half to death."

Ana reached out and touched his arm impulsively. "What happened?" she asked, eyes sparkling.

"Well," answered her dinner date, "I never left the house. I was there the whole time, but I was hiding in the solarium with all the lights off. When the boys got home, they spread their candy out all over the living room floor and ate at least a pound each. Donnie didn't make Charlie go to bed. In fact, they turned on a late show Boris Karloff movie and ate like little pigs. About 10 o' clock, I snuck out of the solarium and crept up behind the couch. The two were huddled together on one end, glued to the television." He paused, and had the decency to look chagrined. "That probably should have been the tip-off. Don never would have let Charlie climb all over him if he wasn't a little scared, himself. Well. I waited until the Crest toothpaste commercial started, and then I sprang up from behind the couch, my arms spread wide, holding my black cape aloft. 'I VANT TO DRINK YOUR BLUD,' I shouted, and pandemonium erupted!" He laughed again, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh, Ana, it was a thing of beauty. Both boys screamed and flew off that sofa. Charlie tripped on a Tootsie Roll and went down right away, and then Don fell over him, and Charlie started crying. Then Don started crying, and backing away from me, dragging his little brother..." He stopped talking, suddenly, and the face so recently animated with humor became almost heart-breakingly sad. "That's when I stopped, and tried to tell them who I was. Donnie was trying to protect his brother, even then."

Ana smiled, her own eyes moistening. "That's sweet. I enjoyed that story, Alan. Did you do that sort of thing to them often?"

Alan shook his head. "More often than I should have, probably. Charlie was eight when we had our first little koi pond - nothing like we have now - and one night Margaret served trout for dinner. You can probably guess what I told him it was." She laughed and he wiped a hand across his face. "I paid for that one. Margaret made me clean it up when Charlie threw up all over the table, and she wouldn't speak to me for almost two days."

Ana's smile had turned a little sad, itself. "I wish I had such memories," she murmured.

Alan didn't know what to say to that, so he regressed to the original subject. "So if Don didn't tell you all of that, why are you so afraid to say whatever's on your mind?"

"I just don't want to offend you," she said seriously.

Alan looked at her. "Do I have something on my teeth?"

She giggled again and shook her head. "No! It's... Well, Don was saying how sorry he was that we could not go to Maine, and..."

Alan groaned. "Oh, my Lord. I need to call Minerva. She's expecting us tomorrow!"

"Maybe we can just put it off a few days, until after Charlie's surgery," Ana suggested somewhat feebly. "I have a friend from medical school. He works for AirMedTrans. In fact, after he inherited some money he actually bought into the company, so he's part owner now."

Alan frowned, confused. "Is that one of those air ambulance things? I'm not sure about their insurance coverage..."

She interrupted. "Please forgive me if I overstepped, but I spoke with Daniel yesterday. I was able to help his sister last year when she was badly burned in an accident, and he feels he owes me a favor. Daniel says that he will provide a jet, and a pilot and co-pilot, at no cost. He will even come along, so your sons will be transported with two doctors onboard." Alan looked a little shell-shocked, so Ana hurried on. "Of course, you should talk to your friend in Maine. She may not want two invalids descending upon her in the height of the tourist season. And I will understand if you think this is a bad idea. It's just that Don mentioned how healing it would be for Charlie."

Alan looked at his meatloaf, which was growing cold, and then back to Ana. This time it was he who stuttered. "I... that... I think that sounds pretty damn incredible," he finally answered. "Tell me more about AirMedTrans."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don concentrated on his dinner and had consumed nearly three-quarters of it before he chanced another appraising glance at his brother. Charlie was fumbling with the bed control, lowering his bed. He stopped at a 15-degree angle. IV lines danced as he rubbed at his thigh with one hand. The other hand rested on his chest, the fingers curling almost spasmodically over the deepest of his puncture wounds.

Don laid his fork on his tray and frowned. "You okay over there?"

"Umpf," grunted Charlie in reply. "I just get cramps in my thigh when I sit up for too long."

Don nodded. "Well, you were up a lot today, with the shower and all. I'm surprised you're not asleep already."

Charlie sniggered. "What? Here in Grand Central Station?"

Don winced. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea for him and Ana to come back to the room after all. "I'm sorry," he said. "Ana and I felt like we were ignoring you, so we came back from the lounge…"

Charlie finally turned his head and looked at him. "It's all-right," he assured Don. "I was just kidding."

His fingers still worked at his wound and Don looked around for his call button. "Does your chest hurt? It should be about time for some more pain meds."

Charlie shook his head, turning his attention back to the ceiling. "I'm all right, Don. I just…I wish…" He sighed, and Don waited. "I know all the scientific explanations; I've heard all the eight-syllable medical terminology. Still, I think about parts of him inside of me and it makes me sick."

"Aw, Chuck." Don spoke in a voice full of sympathy and tried to think of something to say that Charlie hadn't heard twenty times already. "Look," he finally started, his voice growing strong with conviction, "even if that were true, do you think that bastard's tissue had a chance in hell of surviving? He grinned. "Come on, you're an alien host to him. You're the best man I ever hope to know; and he was definitely one of the worst." Charlie had turned his head to look at him and Don found himself warming to his subject. "Hell, Buddy, that's probably why it's been itching. His tissue got a good look around and committed suicide, and now your tissue is surrounding every last spec with a cocoon of pure Charlie."

His brother blinked luminous brown eyes at him. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he finally said.

Don grinned. "Yeah, well, how smart is it to obsess about the opposite?"

Charlie yawned hugely. "Sorry," he mumbled, and Don wasn't sure if he was talking about the yawn or the fingers on his chest. He did notice that Charlie's hand dropped, though, and rested on his stomach.

His brother's eyelids were at half-mast, and Don smiled fondly and started to turn back to his dinner when he saw the huge brown eyes pop open again. "What?"

"Thank you," Charlie whispered. "For what you said, and for coming with me, and finding me at the farm, and…everything. Just because I'd like to take a little…processing…time doesn't mean I don't appreciate all you did for me. All you do for me, every day."

Don's eyes crinkled even as he reddened in embarrassment. "Back atcha, Buddy," he replied. "Get some sleep. I'll keep Ana busy at the hotel tomorrow."

Charlie laughed and closed his eyes, and Don sputtered. "That's not what I mean, you little jerk!"

Charlie's only answer was a snore.

……………………………………………..

End, Chapter 32


	33. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 33: The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Alan and Ana were back at the hospital by 6:30 in the morning; Alan wanted to see Charlie before his surgery, and Ana wanted to make sure Don didn't do something stupid like try to sit upstairs in the surgical waiting room for hours. Hopefully Charlie's knee would be repaired quickly, and he would be in recovery before Don's 9:00 a.m. physical therapy appointment. If that wasn't the case, she wasn't sure she'd be able to get Don to go.

No-one was really surprised when, with a stubborn set to his jaw, Don insisted on sitting with Alan upstairs. Ana argued feebly that he would miss his breakfast, but Don just glared at her and pulled his robe more tightly around his middle. "Do you think it matters to me whether or not I get some sour applesauce and half a cup of watery scrambled eggs when my brother is in surgery?" he snapped.

Ana had actually taken a step back and Alan intervened. "Don! You speak to this lovely young woman that way again in my presence, and you will be wearing those scrambled eggs."

Don had the grace to redden when reprimanded by his father. He ran a hand through his bed hair and looked sheepishly at Ana. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I know you're just being the voice of reason." He shrugged, chagrined. "You might as well know up front that I can be unreasonable when it comes to Charlie."

Despite her earlier affront, Ana felt herself melting. That was probably one of the most adorable things she had ever heard. She smiled in forgiveness. "You could have worse shortcomings."

Alan rolled his eyes and headed for the door. "You two should come with a diabetic warning." Ana and Don laughed, and Alan tried not to smile. "We'll just all go to breakfast in the cafeteria while Charlie is in recovery. How's that?"

In the end, that was the plan that won out. The surgery took until almost 8:45, although the doctor seemed pleased with the results, and Don barely had time to wolf down a bagel before he was due in PT. Ana went with him, insisting that she needed to learn everything so that she could keep an eye on him "at home", and Don's jaded heart swelled in happiness when she used the phrase. Ana already thought of L.A. as home; better yet, she already thought of wherever he was as home. Although she missed a few minutes of the session when she had to step out and place a call, Don maintained his high well enough to persevere without her.

"I should make a call myself," Don mused as he and Ana exited PT. "I know my Dad let the office know what happened, but I'm sure the team would appreciate it if I checked in personally." He huffed. "Looks like I'll still be taking that vacation time; just not the way I thought!"

Ana spied a small waiting area and guided Don toward the chairs. "I wanted to talk to you about that," she said nervously. She sat, and waited until Don painfully lowered himself into a seat facing her. He looked at her, openly curious, and she stammered ahead. "I spoke with your father last night, and he called the woman in Maine ... Minerva?" At Don's nod, she forged full-steam-ahead. "They both agree that it would be good for both you and Charlie to go ahead and take the vacation. She actually told your father that there was a last-minute cancellation, and while he and Charlie can each have a room in the main house, there is a cabin not far away that you and I can share." She blushed, and suddenly looked miserable, dropping her eyes. "If you want," she whispered. "We were only thinking..."

Don leaned forward and grabbed her hands, interrupting. "I don't care what you were thinking," he said, "as long as it ends up with me alone in a cabin with you." He smiled as she shyly lifted her eyes again, and maintained his hold on her hands. "I was thinking too," he said gently. "I'm not sure how well Charlie is going to tolerate flying in those cramped airline seats, whether it's to Maine or home to L.A."

Her smile turned bright and her eyes sparkled, and Don was so busy staring he almost didn't hear what she said. "Oh, but that is the best part! A friend from med school now owns an interest in AirMedTrans. When I spoke to him yesterday, he said that he was bringing someone to Kansas City on a Gulfstream tomorrow afternoon. I phoned again this morning, and all the arrangements are made. He has placed the aircraft and its pilots at our disposal, free of charge! The pilots will be rested and ready to take us all to Bangor on Wednesday morning! Charlie can have the stretcher, and there are seats for the rest of..." Her voice trailed off.

Don's eyes had clouded and he had let go of her hands. He sat back a little in his chair. "_'He'?_" he asked quietly. "I helped arrange something like that for a wounded agent a couple of years ago. It would have cost over 20,000 dollars, without his Bureau insurance!" His eyes darkened in a combination of hurt and suspicion. "Why would some guy you knew in med school do that for you?"

For the second time in a matter of hours Ana found herself at odds with Don Eppes; but this time she startled him even further by clapping her hands together in glee. "You're jealous?" she crowed. "_Ai_, Don...are you jealous?"

He looked away. "I don't see what's so funny about that," he muttered.

She leaned forward and gently touched his chin, turning his face to her own. "No-one has ever cared enough to be jealous before."

Her answer was simple, and soft, and he couldn't stop himself from brushing her lips with his. "Then you have only known idiots," he declared, breaking away from the kiss before he wanted to. They both sat back in their chairs and smiled at each other for a moment.

Finally she shook her head a little, as if to clear cobwebs, and continued. "Daniel has had the same partner for nearly 5 years; the pilot, Jim." She grinned at Don's groan and filled in the blanks. "I was able to help Daniel's sister last year, when she was badly burned and required some extensive plastic surgery. He is pleased to have the opportunity to return the favor."

Don's mouth drooped again. He was finding that to be with this woman required constant emotional upheaval. "You shouldn't cash in a favor for Charlie and me," he started, but she shusshed him by leaning forward again and placing a finger on his lips.

"Nonsense. I do this for us all; your father, and myself, as well as you and your brother." She stood suddenly, reaching out a hand to Don. "Come. We shall check on Charlie and arrange your release, for we have an assignment this afternoon. Alan and I were talking, and it occurred to us that neither one of you has more than one change of clothing. Correct?"

Don pushed himself up and stood. Taking her hand, he groaned dramatically. "I'm _sick_, honey. I can't walk around department stores with you all afternoon!"

She grinned wickedly. "Very well. I will go do the shopping first, and then come back to get you. Of course, that means you're stuck with whatever I decide to purchase. I'm envisioning leather. Perhaps buckskin. Boxers or briefs?"

_Two could play at this game_, Don decided, and he squeezed her hand as they strolled down the hospital corridors. "Commando, babe. Commando."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The aftermath of any surgical procedure was certain to include pain, so Alan was ready for that. He had also possessed the misfortune of having seen Charlie come out of anesthesia once or twice before. It was never something either one of them enjoyed. It wasn't unusual for some rather appalling projectile vomiting to occur, so Alan was even prepared for that. What just about did him in, as he stood at Charlie's bedside and waited for Don and Ana to get back from PT, were the tears.

Not Charlie's. _His._

Charlie had rasped out a "Hiya, Pops" when he was returned from recovery, and hadn't made a sound since. He had fallen back asleep as soon as the nurses got him settled in his own bed. As anesthetic experiences went, this was a fairly benign one so far.

Yet, Alan was standing at the head of the bed sobbing like he had not sobbed since Margaret died.

The last year had been endless. Both of his sons had endured so much. He missed Amita; so much sometimes that it hurt him physically, and terrified him to imagine what it must be like for Charlie. His baby had been stuck to one of the world's most evil men with a pitchfork. His oldest defied death when a bullet parted his hair. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with no support system to buoy him up while he tried to be a rock for his boys. He was tired. The energy it required, to be the father of his sons. _Oy_; it was too much. So he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

And then there were hands on his shaking shoulders, turning him around until his face was buried in his oldest son's shoulder. He felt strong arms around him and also felt a hand lower on his back, rubbing gently. Unless Don had grown a new hand recently, that had to be Ana. He calmed his crying, with a supreme effort, and realized that Don was talking to him. "...wrong, Dad? Did something happen during the surgery? Is he okay?"

At some point Alan had encircled his son with his own arms, and he squeezed tightly before backing cautiously away; he wasn't sure where Ana was standing. It turned out to be at his side, and as he stepped a few inches away from Don her eyes, full of compassion, met his and she pressed a tissue into his hands.

Alan tried to smile his thanks and used the tissue to wipe his eyes. "Charlie's fine," he reassured Don in a voice that sounded as if he was battling a cold. He sighed and patted Don awkwardly on the shoulder, careful to avoid the still-painful wounds in his forearms. "Your old man, though. He needs a vacation."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie swung his braced leg down the hall, Alan fretting on one side and Ana on the other, while Don followed behind in case his brother tipped over backwards.

"I can't believe they do this to people and kick them out of the hospital the next day," said Alan for at least the fourth time. "You're not exactly what I'd call steady on your feet. Ana, I'm glad the flight was arranged for tomorrow; at least Charlie had an extra day of rest."

She smiled, her arm hovering at Charlie's back. "Yes, I know it seems cruel; but you must remember, Alan, Charlie had other injuries that have made him weaker than the average patient. That is why he tires so quickly. I believe he is doing quite well."

"Maybe we should turn around and go back," Don offered. "From back here, it looks like he's wobbling."

Charlie stopped crutching and breathed hard for a moment, looking at the floor. "I'm right here," he snapped. "One might consider consulting me. About how far I feel like walking, about what I want for dinner, about our damn vacation; about _some_thing!"

Ana spoke before Alan could – and shocked the hell out of everybody. "Charles Eppes! We have all gone out of our way to help you. Don spent half of yesterday on his feet buying you clothes for the trip. Your father is exhausted. Perhaps not everything is about you?"

Charlie stiffened, lifting his head slowly to look at Ana. Don and Alan exchanged a nervous glance, both thinking variations of the same thing. If Ana was going to be a significant part of Don's life, then she was going to be a significant part of all the Eppes' lives. She was an intelligent, professional and compassionate woman, and she needed to negotiate her own relationship with each of the three men. It was important to respect her enough to allow her to form - and express - her own opinions. "I see," intoned Charlie evenly. "You're absolutely right, of course." He swiveled his head to regard his father. His dark eyes burned with an expression Alan didn't particularly want to interpret. "It's not that I begrudge either of you a vacation." His shoulders squared a little, causing a wince, but his voice maintained its core of steel as he turned back to Ana. "I would simply prefer to be part of the decision-making process, when something involves me."

Her eyes narrowed and her own voice took on a hint of something metallic that was not easy to bend. "That is a reasonable request. Don and I are to meet my friend Daniel, of AirMedTrans, in the cafeteria soon. You're completely welcome to join us, of course. We will be discussing details of the journey."

Charlie was just about to suggest where Ana could place the Gulfstream jet, for all he cared, when a familiar honey-blonde rounded the corner. The gibberish of Gaby, who was in her mother's arms, distracted him and he looked down the hall to see both Lydia and another woman smiling in his direction. He swallowed, suddenly forgetting his battle of wills with Ana. "Uh…." His eyes darted around frantically, finally settling on his brother, who had moved up beside Ana. "Uh…."

His attention returned to the oncoming women, and Don followed his gaze. With some effort, he stifled a smile. "I think Charlie will trust us with that, Ana," he said, slipping an arm around her waist. "Maybe Dad should come, too?"

Ana looked at him and frowned. "But…" Her eyes widened at his wink and then Lydia and her family were upon them.

"Charlie," she smiled, completely ignoring the other three people in the hall. "I'm so glad you're still here!" Gaby shrieked, and Lydia was jolted to her senses. She blushed faintly. "Oh," she murmured to the crowd at large, "hello. Good evening. Gaby wanted to say good-bye; and my sister Maizey wanted to meet you all…"

Don took pity on her and extended his hand to the short-haired sun-bleached blonde next to Lydia. "Maizey, nice to meet you. I'm Don Eppes. You've probably gathered that the gimp is my brother Charlie. The distinguished-looking gentleman over there is our father, Alan. And this lovely lady is Dr. Ana de la Cruz, my…" Don stumbled, unsure for a moment what to call her. "My 'significant other'," he finally choked, almost afraid to look in her direction. What if she hated that term – or what it implied?

He breathed a little easier – and learned again that Dr. Ana de la Cruz was a force to be reckoned with – when she stepped up and offered her own hand to Maizey. "It is a pleasure," she said sincerely. "Your sister possesses great fortitude, and we have heard much about you." She glanced sideways at Don as she stepped back closer to Charlie. "Don and Alan and I were about to go to the cafeteria for some decent coffee. We would be so pleased if you and Gaby could join us?" She smiled disarmingly at a flabbergasted Lydia. "I'm sure Dr. Campbell will accompany Charlie back to his room."

Maizey looked at her sister and laughed. "I'm thinking that won't be a problem," she teased, holding her arms out to her niece. Gaby went willingly from her mother to her Aunt, and after pleasantries were exchanged with a nearly speechless Charlie, the bulk of the group departed for the cafeteria.

Lydia and Charlie stood silently in the corridor, facing each other, until he began to sway a little. Dr. Campbell grinned ruefully. "Subtle bunch," she said dryly, and Charlie actually laughed for the first time in days. "Can you get back to your room all right?" she continued. "I could get a wheelchair."

He shook his head, and began the laborious process of pivoting. "No," he panted, "it's not far." He studiously avoided looking at her as they made their way down the hall. "I'm…glad you came back. I was hoping to see you again before we leave in the morning."

Lydia smiled at the floor. "Back to L.A.," she guessed.

Charlie tensed a little. "Actually, no. My brother and father and I had a vacation planned at a little island off the coast of Maine, and apparently, that's where we're going."

She looked confused. "Apparently?"

He managed to shrug with his crutches. "Ana had a lot to do with it. She's even arranged transportation on one of those air ambulance things – which I think is ridiculous."

"Because?"

He hopped another step. "Because I'm not an invalid, for Pete's sake; I'm just a little…indisposed. I don't need a stretcher!"

Lydia smiled. "I'm sure it will be more comfortable than sitting in a tiny airliner seat with a brace on your leg for five or six hours," she noted. "I think it was very nice of her to think of that. They can always raise the head of the stretcher; you won't have to lie flat the whole time."

They started to angle to Charlie's room. "I suppose," he said, but he wasn't very convincing.

Once they entered his hospital room, the next several minutes were spent arranging him in the large chair that sat next to the bed. The chair reclined, and Ana kneeled and helped hold up his braced leg while he fumbled with the lever. Then she gently placed several pillows under his leg, and finally perched on the edge of the bed, facing him. "Is there some other reason you don't want to go?" she asked softly.

He sighed, and leaned his head back on the seatback. "No," he said. "I like the island – I was there last fall, and it was beautiful. It's probably even nicer in the summer. And I'm looking forward to seeing my friend Minnie again. Plus, it'll be nice to spend some time with my Dad."

Lydia had bristled at the mention of a woman's name, but the sadness in his voice still concerned her. "Are you afraid this _'Minnie'_ won't adjust to your injury?"

Charlie lowered his head and laughed again. His eyes sparkled as he looked at Lydia. "Minnie? I'll be lucky if she doesn't encase me in bubble wrap. Now Don, _he_ should be worried. She'll probably want him to chop enough firewood to last all the cabins throughout the season!"

Lydia just looked at him blankly, so Charlie explained further. "Minnie owns the little resort where we're staying; she's about my Dad's age." He blanched a little. "Which is a concern, for both Don and me. I anticipate it will be sort of like a cock fight, at first. They're both pretty opinionated people."

She laughed, then. "At least you're traveling with a Peace Officer," she teased, and immediately felt terrible when Charlie's face fell again. "What?"

Charlie rubbed at his forehead and then dropped his hand to his lap. "It's stupid. It's just that he's all moony-eyed over Ana – she's going, too. I find myself resenting the time and attention she takes, and then I feel horrible. She's a great woman, I _like_ her. _Really_. And I want Don to have someone." He sighed again. "I'm a terrible person."

Before she knew what she was doing, Lydia leaned over and ran her hand over the three-day stubble on his face. "No," she objected, "you're not."

Charlie looked at her, a little startled to find her face so close to his own. Then, hardly knowing what he was doing himself, he snaked a hand around the back of her head and drew her closer, into a deep kiss.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don was heavily limping when he returned alone to Charlie's room almost 30 minutes later, and he ruefully admitted to himself that Ana and his father had been right; he should have used the cane PT gave him the morning before. He looked forward to getting in the room and finding the nearest seat, but he took the time to knock lightly as he entered.

He paused in the doorway, slightly disconcerted. He had been there when Lydia showed up in the cafeteria to claim her daughter and her sister, so it wasn't as if he was expecting her to still be inside the room. Nor, however, was he expecting to see Charlie standing on his crutches once again, swaying in place at the window, looking out over the hospital parking lot. "Charlie," he admonished, "shouldn't you be in bed?"

Charlie started a little but his shoulders immediately relaxed as he recognized Don's voice and he didn't turn. "I'm okay," he said somewhat dully.

Don limped into the room and groaned as he lowered himself into the chair next to Charlie's bed. "I'm not," he winced. "But I'll chop all your hair off while you sleep if you tell Ana and Dad."

This time Charlie turned a concerned face toward him, and started the rather involved process of an about-face. "Why? What's wrong? Use the call button and get the nurse…"

Don smiled, slowly flexing his leg and kneading his thigh with one hand. "Don't get in an uproar, Chuck; it's nothing serious. I may not have taken full advantage of the cane Physical Therapy was nice enough to give me, is all." He kneaded a little harder. "Cramp," he grunted. "Inside; I can't seem to work it out."

Charlie swung a step closer. "Sorry," he said miserably, and Big Brother decided it was time for distraction. "So, that Daniel guy is pretty cool. AirMedTrans will take us all the way to Bangor, and he's even arranged ground transportation for the last 40 miles to Bar Harbor." He snapped his fingers, suddenly. "Oh! And I haven't told you yet; Minnie called Dad during our coffee klatch downstairs and talked to Daniel, too, coordinating everything. She's really looking forward to seeing you again; even if it _is_ the height of the busy season for her!"

Charlie's eyes strayed sideways to the window again. What was so fascinating out there? "That's fine," he mumbled.

Don cleared his throat. "So, I just wanted to come up again to say good-night. The docs are going to release you to Daniel bright and early tomorrow morning; 6:00 a.m. Lydia talked Dad into going to dinner with us at the hotel, but he said he'll call you later."

"That's fine," Charlie said again, moving his head enough so that he could study the floor.

Don tried again. "They wanted to come up too, but I sent them after the rental."

"Umm-hmm," Charlie responded, and Don sighed.

"Look, Buddy, if you really don't want to go to Maine, we don't have to. I'm sorry we didn't consult you. We kind-of thought you were the one who needed this vacation the most; we thought we were doing you a favor."

Charlie raised his eyes slightly, to meet Don's. "It's fine," he said for a third time. "Tell Ana I'm very sorry I spoke to her that way. I was a little cranky."

Don studied him for a moment, watching Charlie glance at the window again. He placed both hands on the arm rests of the chair, as if to push himself up. "What's going on out there? Am I missing something?"

To his surprise, Charlie blushed, looked quickly away from the window and started crutching toward the bed again. "I…was just…"

Sudden insight burst upon Don and he grinned. "Watching her leave, eh Buddy?"

Charlie looked at his brother pleadingly through award-winning wounded puppy eyes. "Please, I don't want to talk about that. Please."

Don was torn. Now that he could see Charlie was obviously upset, it was suddenly more apparent that Lydia had been somewhat flustered herself when she had appeared at the cafeteria table ten minutes ago. He frowned. "I thought you guys were having some good talks. Did something happen?"

Charlie dropped his eyes to the floor.

"It's fine," he insisted. "Everything is fine."

Don moved his feet out of the way so Charlie could crutch past him and access the bed. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he was pretty sure everything wasn't fine.

End, Chapter 33


	34. This Is A Vacation?

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****34:**** This is a Vacation?**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The flight to Bangor was remarkably smooth. Don had to admit, the medical transport staff of AirMedTrans was well trained and very attentive. Still, the flight took nearly 4 hours, and the drive to Bar Harbor was nearly an hour, in the ambulance that AirMedTrans had provided for ground transportation. By the time they made it to the ferry, it was near dinnertime, and they were hungry and tired. In spite of that, Ana was enchanted by the town, its quaint streets, the eclectic mix of shops and cafés. The ambulance took them to the walkway to the ferry and let them out; trying to cut down the distance that Charlie would need to travel on his crutches.

They unloaded luggage, which was not a large task; none of them had packed much in the way of clothes for the trip to Kansas City. Even with the clothes that Don and Ana had picked up for them while Charlie was in the hospital, their bags were few. Don looked at his watch and then took a quick glance at the ferry schedule. "Better hurry – the next one leaves in 20 minutes. If we don't catch that, it's over a two-hour wait."

Ana looked back up the street toward the shops, longingly. "It would not be the end of the world if we had to stay," she said. "We could eat dinner, perhaps a little shopping…"

Don murmured in her ear. "We'll come back for a day, just the two of us." He looked at Charlie, who was crutching ahead of them, carefully trying to navigate the distance to the ferry ticket booth. "It's been a long day already, and we still have to get him out to the island."

Charlie stopped so suddenly that Don almost ran into the back of him. "I'm fine," he said, with a quick, disdainful backward glance. "If you want to stay; then stay."

Ana shot Don an uncertain glance, and then spoke soothingly. "No, of course not – we will have plenty of time here. Don is right; it will be something better to do when we have the whole day for it."

"I'm not an invalid," Charlie muttered crossly, as if to continue the argument, but he put his head down and started crutching again.

Don wisely didn't point out the fact that he was indeed an invalid, at least temporarily, and instead stepped up to the window to purchase the ferry tickets. Between Don and Ana and Alan, they managed the luggage. Don's arms were still too sore to grip anything, but he could handle straps on his shoulders, and Ana carried her bag, and Alan carried his and Charlie's. Lugging their burdens, trailing Charlie, they maneuvered down the long walkway to the ferry. Alan came puffing up behind them, a sparkle in his eyes and a grin on his face.

"This was just the ticket," he crowed. "Just look at this place, it's beautiful!" He set a bag down and waved an arm enthusiastically toward the harbor, stretching in front of them, framed by the coastline, rimmed with rocks and pine forest. "I can see why you liked this place, Charlie."

Charlie's frown relaxed a little, and he looked around as if just noticing his surroundings for the first time. "Yeah, it is nice," he said, a bit wistfully. His eyes fell on Don and Ana, who had moved up to the front of the ferry and stood looking out over the railing, and he pulled his eyes away, his face closing again.

Alan followed his gaze, and gave Charlie a calculating glance. "Come on, let's go up and join them," he said.

Charlie shrugged, with feigned indifference. "That's okay," he said. "I'll just sit here. Go ahead."

"Nonsense," said Alan heartily. "Why should they hog the view? Let's go."

Charlie rolled his eyes a little, but began to crutch his way to the back of the boat. Honestly, he was exhausted, his leg was throbbing, and the less he had to move the better. And just as honestly, he didn't want to be anywhere near his brother and Ana; he felt uncomfortably like an intruder. The whole idea of the trip was beginning to rankle; it had started out as a family trip, and Ana's presence had changed the whole dynamic, at least for him. He reminded himself that it had been his idea to invite her, and tried to push down the thought; his brother deserved someone in his life, he told himself. '_Get over it_,' he muttered to himself, almost angrily, but in spite of the self-admonition, he felt a little hollow inside.

As he lowered himself onto the bench-like seat with shaking arms, the boat lurched a little, and he plunked in his seat with a thump, as his father, Ana and Don scrambled for seats of their own. Alan was fishing in his pockets with a look of consternation on his face. "I can't find my Dramamine," he said. "I had it on the plane…"

Charlie and Don exchanged a wide-eyed glance. Ana took in the gaze, her brow furrowing prettily in confusion at Alan's panicked expression. "Surely it will not be so bad," she said soothingly. "This boat is big and solid; I can barely feel the movement of the water."

"Barely being a relative term," said Charlie, as a small swell produced the faintest tilt, and Alan turned pale. "When it comes to Dad, 'any' is a problem."

Don turned in his seat and murmured to Charlie. "Ten bucks he doesn't make it a hundred feet from the dock."

"Forget it," Charlie shot back. He grinned, his first smile of the day, but it faded as Don looked away toward Ana, and Charlie realized that coincidentally, it was the first thing that Don had said to him all day – at the least the first thing meant for his ears alone.

Alan shot to his feet suddenly, and lurched for a seat on the other side of the boat, startling another couple that was coming forward to take the view. They froze, wide-eyed in fear at the green apparition staggering their way, and the man hastily took his partner's arm and retreated, just as Alan reached the other side.

"Wise move, mister" said Don, grinning a little, but shaking his head in sympathy as Alan leaned over the side, panting. He glanced at Ana, and stood, holding out a hand to help her up. "Maybe we should go for a walk, leave the poor guy in peace. I'm sure he doesn't want an audience – at least not one that includes a pretty girl."

Ana dimpled, but her eyes fell on Charlie, who had grown silent, his face inscrutable; his eyes fixed on his father. "Charlie, perhaps you should come back also. You are looking tired." She shot Don a mischievous glance. "Your brother can help your father."

Don made a face at her, not intended for Charlie, but he caught it out of the corner of his eye. "No, that's okay," Charlie said, with a firmness he didn't feel. "You two go on." He looked at Don. "If Dad needs you, I'll come and get you."

Don looked at Charlie's carefully composed face, trying to read it, wondering when his brother had learned to school his features. Maybe he couldn't read anything because there was nothing _to_ read, he said to himself. "Okay, Buddy. I'll check back in a little while. Maybe we'll see if someone else on board has some Dramamine."

A slightly bigger swell hit the boat, and the ferry rolled a bit. Don and Ana leaned a little, and Don used the movement as an excuse to put his arm around her, as they moved away, staggering a bit, laughing. Charlie watched them go, then sighed, and with an effort pushed himself back up on to his feet with his crutches, standing still for a moment as his head whirled with unexpected dizziness. Maybe the boat was getting to him too – although he could feel fatigue seeping into his bones, perhaps he was simply tired. He managed to make it across the deck to his father, who had effectively given them their own private side of the boat.

"Hey, Dad, how are you doing?" he asked, as another swell rocked the boat. Alan looked at him, eyes watering, and then turned and heaved over the side.

Charlie crutched unsteadily to a nearby seat, upwind, and plopped into it. "That good, huh?" He looked at the horizon and sighed. It was going to be a long boat ride. Hell, for that matter, it was going to be a long vacation.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

It was after seven when they docked. Alan was first in line; he staggered up to the gate and the other passengers parted like the Red Sea at his approach, leaving him plenty of room. Don shot a quick glance toward the back of the boat to assure himself that Charlie was coming, and took his father's arm as they disembarked. Ana waited, watching Charlie with narrowed eyes. He looked in pain, utterly exhausted, she thought, and she followed him slowly up the ramp. It was evident that the trip had been entirely too much for him.

The walkway widened and she pulled up next to him. "Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"Fine," came out, sharply, with a rush of air. He kept his head down, and increased his pace a little as if to prove his contention, but she noticed that his arms were trembling.

They finally reached the top, and she breathed a sigh of relief along with him as they paused on the sidewalk, next to a small grocer's. Neither of them looked as relieved as Alan, though, as he stood, inhaling great breaths of air.

"Well, aren't you a rag-tag bunch?" came a woman's voice, and Ana turned to see a pair of bright blue eyes, under a wreath of the most amazing silver-white hair she'd ever seen. In spite of the white hair and the lines, she was still attractive; Ana felt instinctively that she had been very beautiful, once. Her tiny, wiry frame was adorned with a flannel shirt, which hung over a pair of jeans and hiking boots.

Charlie smiled: the first genuine smile that Ana had seen on the entire trip. "Minnie! Minerva Caswell, you remember my brother Don, of course, and this is my father, Alan Eppes, and – and our friend, Dr. Ana de la Cruz." Ana noticed his slight hesitation as Charlie introduced her, but she pushed it aside. She wasn't exactly sure what she was to the Eppes family yet, herself; her connection with Don was too new. She glanced at Don, who smiled back, and her heart skipped a beat at the look in his eyes.

Minnie stepped forward and gave Charlie a hug, but her eyes caught Ana's. "When I said rag-tag, I didn't mean you, dear. The men are lookin' a little the worse for wear, but of course, we women are a lot tougher, don't you think?" She sent Ana a conspiratorial wink, and stepped back, holding her hand out to Ana, and then Don, and last, Alan. As Alan took it, he got the full effect of a firm grip and the laser blue eyes; they seemed to look right through him, and as he took her hand, he felt oddly defensive, and profoundly glad he was no longer heaving. He got the impression that a man would need to stay on his toes around this one.

Minerva waved her arm, indicating a van behind her. "I brought the van this time; the pickup would have been a tight squeeze."

Alan's eyes traveled over her shoulder, and his jaw dropped at the sight of the green Volkswagen van, a relic from the late sixties or early seventies, complete with a fading peace sign decal in the window. "I had that same van," he said, with a grin of amazement, "in college."

Minerva patted a fender affectionately as she moved past it to open the van door. "She only comes out in the summer," she said. "I store her in the winter – otherwise she would have rusted away by now."

She opened the front passenger side, with a sharp glance at Charlie, wondering if the others had noticed that the young man was trembling, albeit slightly, from fatigue, and had an odd whiteness around his lips. "The front seat is probably the easiest for you," she said, and her blue eyes clouded with concern as his father helped him into the seat.

The rest of them clambered into the back, and Alan sank back gratefully into a seat. His stomach was finally settling a little, and he could focus a little better on his surroundings. He drew a deep breath of pine-scented air, and took in the golden twilight streaming over the water. Things were looking up – thank God he was off that infernal boat.

Moments later, as the van lurched down the gravel road and he was hanging on for dear life, he rescinded his prayer. The boat was suddenly looking unaccountably good. Between bounces, he reflected on how far automobile manufacturers had come with suspensions; he'd forgotten that the van rode like a mechanical bull. He could tell that he was traveling through pine forest by the darkness and the smell; but that was the only reason – it was whizzing by too fast to pick out individual trees. Suddenly the van slowed with a bone-grinding jerk, and Alan saw Minerva looking at Charlie with concern. "I'm sorry, dear, I forgot, and just tore off like a bat out of hell. I'll slow it down."

Slow it down she did, but the damage had been done, and by the time they pulled up in front of a cabin, Alan's beleaguered stomach was flipping again, and he stumbled out of the van like a polished stone that had been spit out of a tumbler, his head reeling. He wondered dimly if Minerva handled men like she handled vehicles, and then slapped himself mentally – where on earth had that thought come from? Still it brought a little grin to his face, and he turned to see Ana and Don emerge from the van, with the rattled loopy smiles that people wore when they exited an amusement park ride.

Don whispered something in Ana's ear, and she laughed, and the sight brought a genuine smile to Alan's face. Those two were certainly hitting it off; it was about time his oldest connected with someone, he thought. He stepped past them, reaching in to grab a bag.

Charlie sat for a moment, trying to gather his strength, then slowly opened the door, and slid his crutches into position. He felt strange, lightheaded, and he suddenly couldn't wait to lie down. He noticed vaguely that they were in front of Minerva's cabin, and he heard her telling the others that she would unload Charlie and Alan there, and then drive Don and Ana to their cabin after dinner. He was sliding out onto his good leg as she spoke, which suddenly felt extremely wobbly, and her voice seemed to be drowned out by a strange roaring that he thought at first was wind in the pine trees. He stared up at them, wondering how they could be so noisy when they looked so still.

Minerva stopped speaking suddenly and looked with alarm at Charlie, and Don turned just in time to catch him mid-slump. He eased him down, holding his upper body, and looked up with dawning panic in his face, as Charlie's head rolled against his shoulder. "What's wrong with him?"

The others clustered around as Ana took his pulse. "His pulse is steady," she said. "I think perhaps the trip was just too much for him."

"Let's get him inside," directed Minnie, "I have a bed ready."

Between three of them, they managed to transport Charlie's limp figure to a bedroom inside, awkwardly because of the brace on his leg. Minnie fussed over him, pulling a cheery quilt over him, gently pressing a cool cloth against his face. She shot Alan a sharp glance. "You really ought to take better care of him."

Alan was already irritated; she had pushed him out of the way in her ministrations and was performing what he felt was decidedly his job. "We do just fine, thank you," he shot back. "It's not as if I invited the men who attacked him over for dinner."

"Hmpff," sniffed Minerva, and she dabbed at Charlie's forehead with the cloth. "Poor baby." She glared at Alan, and he glared back, as Charlie stirred and his eyes fluttered open.

He took in their expressions, both of which instantly softened as they looked back at him, and they immediately began fussing, clucking, murmuring comforting words, inquiring how he felt, touching, tucking blankets; patting his cheek… He felt claustrophobia rising, and taking a deep breath to fight it down, closed his eyes with a groan, as Minerva gave the comforter a little tug, Alan gave it a yank back, and they faced off, glaring again. This was a mistake – he knew it, this vacation was a huge mistake.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End Chapter 34


	35. Eppes in Love

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****35:**** Eppes in Love**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don and Ana pushed open the door of the cabin and flicked on a light. Minnie had dropped them off after dinner; the cabin was the fourth one down; a healthy distance from Minerva's own home, and set back in the woods a bit from the other cabins, for added privacy. The camp was full; all of the dozen or so cabins were occupied, although most of the renters were in for the evening.

They escaped gratefully; dinner had been a tense affair. Charlie maintained that he wasn't up for it, but Minerva insisted on serving him soup in bed. The rest of them ate chicken breasts with wild rice and mushrooms; the food was delicious, but the atmosphere between Alan and Minerva was icy. Don and Ana beat a hasty retreat afterward, and only Don's injuries kept him from carrying their luggage down to their cabin himself.

Inside, he breathed a sigh of relief, but found himself suddenly tongue-tied, not a normal situation for him around anyone, especially a beautiful woman. Minnie had tucked a bottle of wine in his bag, a nice Cabernet, and he pulled it out, as Ana feigned interest in the knick-knacks on a shelf. "Wine?" he asked, holding it up.

Ana jumped at the offer. "Oh, yes, please, that would be nice." She would latch onto any distraction at the moment, she thought to herself. She finally had some real time alone with a man who had already won her heart, but suddenly she felt shy. What did he feel? Was he as attracted to her as she was to him? He must be, to invite her along on his family vacation, she told herself. She tried to bolster her courage with a sip of wine as he handed her a glass, but her past, as always in a new relationship, came back to haunt her. Part of her was broken, she knew, by Macedo. She had never been able to shake the feeling that she was somehow unclean, undeserving of a real relationship. It had undermined every other liaison she had ever attempted; why should she think this one would work?

Still, it seemed different, this one. She was so comfortable with Don; in spite of the electric physical attraction. It just seemed right, she thought, as he took her hand and drew her to sit on the sofa next to him. She leaned against him, fitting perfectly into the space under his arm, and they clinked glasses. "To vacation," proposed Don.

"To vacation," she echoed with a smile. She followed it with a shake of her head. "Ai, poor Charlie. I am not sure what a vacation this will be for him."

Don chuckled. "Are you kidding? My dad and Minerva will be fighting over who can coddle him more. He's got it made. Besides, he's not up for a lot besides that, right now; he needs rest, to recuperate. I can't think of a better place to do that than here."

She cocked her head, questioningly. "Why did he come here before?"

Don's smile faded a little, and he took a drink of wine, and set his glass on the coffee table. "I imagine for that very reason. He was struggling, after what had happened – he'd been imprisoned, kidnapped, nearly killed. He was dealing with all of that, plus the loss of Amita."

She set her glass down next to his and considered that for a moment. "I'm surprised you let him come alone."

Don shook his head. "I didn't. He took off without telling us – scared us half to death. It was days before I figured out where he was, and then when I got here, Penfield was here." His voice trailed off, his jaw hardened, and his eyes grew dark. Ana got a glimpse of something she hadn't seen in him before – the agent, the man who dealt with a darker side of life.

Instead of repelling her, she felt a deep bond, a connection. They had both been touched by things that were black, that were evil, which were avoided by most. They would forever be affected by the association, but it had not conquered them; in spite of it, they had survived. She turned to look at him, and found him studying her; and their eyes locked.

Don stared into her eyes, mesmerizing, beautiful, even with their undercurrent of pain. He wanted to wash it away, to make her forget. Her breathing had quickened, and he suddenly drew her to him, burying a hand in her hair, his lips meeting hers in a deep, passionate kiss. Don felt his entire body, his soul responding, with an intensity he'd never felt before. It was a declaration of something unspoken, an acknowledgment of where they were headed next, and when they parted, each of them could read it in the other's eyes.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked softly.

Her lips brushed his. "Yes. More than anything in my life."

He smiled, and rising, took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

The ensuing week brought healing for all of them. During the course of it, Minerva and Alan had seemed to come to a truce, and much to Don's surprise, actually progressed to the point where they seemed to be enjoying each other's company – although he had to admit, that scared him a little.

Charlie was up and around again, and seemed to be in the process of regaining his strength. Sleep, good food, and sunshine had put a little weight back on him and a little color in his face. He seemed unusually quiet, but always had a smile for Don and Ana when they were around, which Don had to admit, somewhat guiltily, wasn't much. He was head-over-heels, completely consumed with Ana – the sight, touch, smell, taste and sound of her, and he couldn't seem to get enough. Once in a while he would catch Charlie's eyes on him, dark and solemn, but as soon as their gaze met, Charlie would smile, and Don took it as his brother's way of saying he was okay with the arrangements. He kept telling himself that he needed to do something with Charlie, just the two of them, but the opportunity hadn't arisen, partly because of the fact that Charlie was on crutches, still not very mobile, and Don hadn't quite figured out what that something was.

Maybe today would bring an opportunity, he thought, as he strolled with Ana up the walk toward the water. Minerva had planned a picnic at the water's edge, and she, Alan and Charlie were rolling slowly over the trail ahead of them in a battered golf cart, a concession to Charlie and his crutches. They pulled out of the woods to a grassy area above the shoreline, and as Don and Ana stepped out of the woods behind them, the first thing that hit him was the view. It was a glorious summer afternoon; and the bay stretched out in front of them, blue and sparking. It was as always, in motion, with small choppy waves cascading on the rocks below, providing a soothing backdrop of sound. Minerva and Alan had already made at least one trip, and camp chairs had been set up, along with a small grill, and a fire had been laid for later in the evening.

The second thing that assailed him was a cascade of memories. Below and a few hundred yards to the right were the docks, where Crazy Pete had brought him ashore through the storm in his frantic attempt to get back to the island, to Charlie. He had run up that slope, and through the woods in the darkness, in the storm…His thoughts broke off as he caught sight of the boat chugging into a mooring on the dock; maybe it was his imagination, but it actually looked like Crazy Pete.

His suspicion was confirmed as Minerva shaded her eyes with her hand, gazing at the now approaching figure, stumping up the slope. "Pete! What is that idiot doing here?"

The rest of them raised their eyebrows at her description, obviously wondering what had generated her reaction, except for Don, who had a good idea. He moved in front of Ana, sincerely hoping the man kept his nasal secretions to himself, and watched with amusement as Alan performed the same maneuver, putting himself in front of not only Charlie, who was sliding off the seat of the golf cart, but also Minnie.

Pete's appearance was enough to generate a fight-or-flight response in anyone. Unshaven, clad in ragged clothes that looked as though they'd never seen a washer, he peered at them with a half-deranged look. At least Don thought he was peering at them – it was hard to tell which, if any, of his skewed eyeballs was actually making visual contact.

"Hey, Minerva," he bellowed, as he plodded up. "I was out to Pelican Point, and I thought I'd stop by and see ya." His head swiveled, and Don surmised that he was looking at them. He had an almost uncontrollable impulse to look out at the harbor, because that's where Pete's eyes, or one of them, appeared to be looking, but he stifled it with an effort. Pete sniffed, and Don braced himself for a spitball, but it didn't come. "Got a few rentahs, huh?"

Minerva was smiling, but her eyes were sharp. "Actually, Pete, I've got company, from California." She appeared to have a hard time getting the next words out. "You're welcome to sit with us a spell."

Pete broke into a gap-toothed grin. "Don't mind if I do." He stumped over to a camp chair and plopped into it. "Nice day, ain't it?" He was smiling, but one of his eyes wandered suspiciously toward Alan.

And so, Pete came to join the party. Much to Don's amusement, he planted himself firmly on one side of Minnie and Alan on the other, and they vied for her attention and conversation, glaring at each other, while she sat demurely in the center with a smile on her face that said she was enjoying it all thoroughly. The late afternoon passed quickly, with conversation, and a round of Frisbee for everyone except Charlie and Crazy Pete. Dinnertime brought white wine, and grilled seafood kabobs, which Minnie and Alan had concocted together.

Charlie sat quietly during the festivities, and watched as Don put an arm around Ana, and Alan and Minnie bent their heads together conspiratorially over the grill, giggling like teenagers. He was surrounded by friends and family, and had never felt more alone in his life. He was painfully certain that he was a fifth wheel, and only the presence of Crazy Pete kept him from excusing himself. Instead, he retreated to a blanket, and into a notebook, half-filled with scribbled equations. He had filled five of them during the week; they were the only thing that had kept him sane.

He had decided, that first morning, when Don and Ana showed up late, with a sparkle in their eyes, clearly infatuated with each other, that he would make himself scarce. As the week wore on, he alternated between sunning himself on Minnie's patio and secluding himself in his room, always with a notebook. He punctuated the sessions with half-hearted attempts at eating, and short jaunts on his crutches to build up his strength, but largely he kept to himself.

He had to admit, however, that his self-imposed exile wasn't just for Don and Ana's sake. He was struggling mightily with his own emotions. He was still dealing with the violence and horror of his bout with Macedo. Even more profoundly however, he felt a sadness that he hadn't felt since he first learned of Amita's death, and he wasn't at all sure where it was coming from. At least sadness was part of it; he couldn't begin to understand the rest of his emotions – frustration, a sense of loss, a sense that life was moving on without him and he was standing still.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and let his mind drift, a vision would fill it – cornflower blue eyes, and honey-colored hair, a shy smile…He'd jerk his mind back to reality almost angrily. How could he think about Lydia? It was completely unfair to Amita; she was gone because of him, because of her association with him. On top of that, Lydia was something he could never have. She was vulnerable after what had happened – and then he had taken advantage of her vulnerability and kissed her, made a pass at her. It was reprehensible on his part – the way she had run from the room had been testament enough of that. Yes, it was deplorable, and the worst part was, if she were here, he would do it again in a heartbeat. Desert Amita's memory; take advantage of a soft, beautiful, wonderful woman. What kind of uncouth, low person would do that, he asked himself, with disgust.

He had made it through dinner, and the sun was setting. He watched Ana and Don stroll to the edge of the slope and look out at the sunset, holding hands, and then saw Minerva and Alan join them. There was only him and Pete now, two misfits, and even Pete was oblivious of him; he sat glowering at the group. A wave of sadness washed over Charlie; he suddenly couldn't take this anymore – he needed to get away. He struggled to his feet, and crutched toward the docks up the coastline.

He couldn't go back to the cabin, as much as he wanted to; it was too far on his crutches, and he couldn't drive the golf cart with his injured leg. He was sure his father would try to convince him to stay – it was better to just pretend he was taking a walk - make that a hobble - of his own. One thing he knew – he needed some solitude, and he needed it fast – he could feel tears, humiliating tears, rising.

As he neared the docks he scanned the hillside leading down to them. He remembered, very vaguely, coming down the hill in the storm at night to the Coast Guard cutter, but he had been so concerned about Don and his injuries, he didn't actually remember how they had gotten down the hill. As he approached, he saw that there was a concrete ramp leading down to the docks, and he headed for it without hesitation. Maybe the others would think he'd simply gone down to look at the boats; it would be a good place to sit for awhile until he could get himself back together. He crutched down the ramp, fighting the rising lump in his throat.

Don caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head to see Charlie, silhouetted against pale orange sky, headed toward the docks. "Now where is he going?" he wondered aloud.

"Perhaps to look at the boats," conjectured Ana. She looked out at the water and sighed with contentment. It was the time of evening when the sun turned the sky soft pastels, and the water took on a gleaming metallic cast, rolling like molten silver.

Don could see that Alan's eyes were on Charlie also, his expression sober, contemplative. "He seems like he's doing okay," offered Don.

Alan shot him a sharp, calculating glance, as Minnie moved beside him. "You think so?"

Don looked a little taken aback. "What, you don't?"

Alan turned his gaze toward Charlie again, and watched as the curly head descended the ramp and out of sight behind an outcropping of rocks. "Physically, I think he's healing. Mentally, well, he's struggling a bit."

Don felt a twinge of uneasiness. "He seemed fine to me," he protested.

"Oh, he tries to be upbeat, I think, especially when you two are around. The rest of the time though, he hides in his room or out on the patio, alone, working in his notebooks. Minnie and I try to draw him out, but it hasn't been working too well."

Minnie's eyes were in the direction of the docks now too, and they watched as the solitary figure appeared on the other side of the outcropping, hobbling down the dock to the end. "I used to work in a VA hospital when I was younger," she said softly. "The men there had gone through a lot, but it didn't always hit them right away. Sometimes it took a little while, sometimes months, before they came to terms with what had happened to them. It's not so unusual, really."

Don looked from her to Charlie, stricken. Had his brother really been having that hard of a time, and he hadn't seen it? He'd been so completely consumed with Ana, and he'd spent so little time with Charlie, that he couldn't see he was in trouble. The thought brought a sickening wave of guilt, and he turned as he felt a gentle squeeze on his arm.

Ana looked at him sympathetically. "Why don't you go talk to him now? It's a good opportunity, yes?"

Don looked at her, and then at Alan, as if looking for confirmation. "Yeah, maybe I will. I'll be back in a bit."

He didn't wait for the confirmation, but took off with a loping jog, a concession to his injured leg. It didn't hurt too much when he walked anymore, but he could feel it now. He slowed as he hit the ramp; the downward tilt made any speed faster than a walk awkward. It emptied out onto a small wharf, built on the rocks, with docks radiating out from it. Small waves crashed against the pilings and the rocks, creating an overlying muted roar, and so Charlie didn't hear him as he approached.

At first Don thought his brother was simply admiring the sunset. He was seated at the end of the dock, his braced leg stretched out in front of him, the other crossed in front, with his crutches beside him. He was hunched slightly with his arms wrapped around his middle, his face in quarter profile; his chin lifted.

Don stepped up behind him. "Nice view, huh?"

Charlie's head whipped around, reflexively, and he turned it away immediately, but not before Don caught the wetness on his cheek. His heart sank.

"Yeah," Charlie cleared his throat, ran a hand over his face, trying to sound normal. "It's a great sunset."

Don paused, trying to figure out his next statement. Clearly, Charlie was dealing with some heavy stuff, and just as clearly, he was trying to hide it. Was it better to tackle it head-on, or work up to it? Don wondered. He sat down on the rough docking next to Charlie, ever so slightly behind him to give him a little privacy, a chance to hide his face, and crossed his legs.

"So, uh, how are you feeling?" It came out sounding lame, and Don winced, but Charlie answered it matter-of-factly.

"Okay." Shrug. "The staples in my leg are itching."

"Yeah, Ana said they need to come out tomorrow. She got permission from your doctor for her to do it – she's done it before. They gave her some kind of kit." Don paused. "You've been pretty quiet. You okay?"

Another shrug, and then came a response so low that Don could hardly hear it. "I guess so."

Don sighed. The roundabout tactic wasn't working very well, so he decided on a direct frontal approach. "Look, Buddy, I can tell something's bothering you. You know you can talk to me, right?"

Charlie turned his head a bit to the left, so that Don couldn't see his face. A part of him wanted desperately to talk, but a part was afraid of what would come tumbling out, afraid he'd break down. He paused for a moment on the precipice. "I don't know – I just – I just feel that life is moving on without me, I guess."

Don felt his heart twist. He had been a big reason for that; he was sure – he and his involvement with Ana. He cast about for words, but Charlie continued before he could say anything.

"A part of me _wants_ to move on, but I still miss Amita – so much. And I feel like if I were to move on, I would be deserting her. It wouldn't be right – I'm the reason she was killed to begin with." In spite of his efforts to sound emotionless, his voice cracked a little, and Don's heart melted.

He scooted closer and put an arm around Charlie's shoulders. "You need to get one thing straight, bro," he said, gently but firmly. "You were not the reason she was killed. You didn't ask Macedo to come after you – you were every bit as much of a victim as she was. It was not your fault."

Charlie drew a shaky breath. Don could see his face now, twisted with pain, a fresh tear coursing down his cheek, and he continued. "Actually, I don't think you're standing still, Buddy – the fact that you are talking about wanting to move on means you're making progress – it's the first time you've said that since Amita's been gone. She would want you to move on, Charlie. You're only thirty-two years old. She would never expect you to give up the rest of your life, any more than you would expect her to, if the situation was reversed." He paused for a moment, and looked at Charlie questioningly. "When you say move on, what did you have in mind?"

Charlie shot him a glance; then looked away again. "I don't know," he mumbled despondently, so low that Don could hardly hear him over the sound of the wind and the surf. "It doesn't matter – we couldn't have a relationship anyway."

"Who is 'we?'"

Charlie looked at him miserably. "Lydia Campbell. I can't stop thinking about her. I kissed her – she'd just been through that – nightmare, and I took advantage of her. The second time, anyway. The first time Macedo made us do it."

Don frowned, bewildered, trying to make sense out the statements. "Wait – Macedo made you kiss?"

Charlie looked away. "Yeah, I wasn't sure why at first, but when you told me that the police said he planted the notes on her computer and mine, I realized that he was probably trying to plant DNA evidence – our DNA, on each other." He shot a sideways glance at Don, taking in his shocked look. "Pretty sick, huh?" He looked back out at the water again. "So she had me forced on her – twice. The second time was in the hospital – I kissed her again."

Don raised an eyebrow. "Forced on her, huh? Did she kiss you back?"

Charlie's voice was low. "Yeah. I think she was being polite."

Don snorted softly. "Charlie, I saw her in action. She's one determined woman when she wants to be. I don't think she'd kiss a guy just to be polite."

Charlie groaned and ran a hand over his face. "I don't know – I'm so confused. I keep thinking of Amita, and I feel like I should forget all of that – just concentrate on my career – it's safer. I can't stop thinking about Lydia though, and I know it's not right – I don't know what's wrong with me."

Don gave him a squeeze. "Nothing's wrong with you, Buddy. Not a thing – you're in love, that's all. Trust me, I know the symptoms."

Charlie finally turned his face, and looked him directly in the eye, with a forlorn expression. "But it doesn't matter much. She's in Kansas City – and anyway, it's not fair for me to try to start anything. She can't be thinking straight after what happened – she just lost her husband – it's too soon. I'd just be taking advantage of her again."

Don was just preparing to reply, when a shriek made both of their heads snap around. From their seated position on the dock, they couldn't see up the rocky slope behind them, but the sound had come from the picnic area. Don jumped to his feet, as Charlie grabbed for his crutches. To his shock, Don could see Alan and Pete, grappling with each other in an awkward dance in front of the fire pit, each of them trying to get a grip on the other man. "Aw, geez, Buddy – I gotta break this up!"

"Break what up?" gasped Charlie. He frantically tried to get his good leg under him, as Don sprinted up the dock. Using his crutches he pushed upward – too hard, in his haste. He was trying to turn, and that compounded the issue. He'd just managed to get erect, and get a brief glimpse of the group in the distance, when he staggered badly. He stepped hard on his bad leg, which threw him back a step, and his good leg landed on the very edge of the dock, with part of his foot hanging backwards off it. He dropped his crutches, and for a moment, he was suspended in a wild dance, arms wind-milling frantically. One last desperate grab at the air, and he was gone, plunging over the edge of the dock into the icy Atlantic.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End Chapter 35


	36. Save My Life I Goin Down 4 the 3rd Time

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****36:**** Save My Life, I'm Going Down for the Third Time **

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Pete slumped in a camp chair and sulked, his wandering eye as focused as it could get. That dad-gum gigilo from Cal-uh-for-ni-A was bent over the cooler with his Minerva, and he didn't like it one little bit. They was pretendin' to pack up the picnic, but their heads didn't need to be so close for _that_!

He harrumphed, stood from the chair and hitched up his baggy jeans until they darn-near met his sagging pectorals, and took a step in their direction.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Minnie offered Alan a container of pickles and blew her gray hair out of her face. "It's a hot one today," she noted, and let her gaze wander toward the docks. Don and Charlie were both out of sight, now. "I'm hoping that young'un's all right. He's been a mite quiet this visit." She heard her own words and chuckled, reaching into the cooler with the bowl of olives. "Not like he was givin' any wild parties the last time, you understand."

Alan wedged the pickles in-between the potato salad and the hot dogs, and laughed. "Can't say that surprises me," he admitted, brushing Minnie's hand as he took the olives from her. He smiled into her eyes. "He's always worn his heart on his sleeve." He pivoted his own head to look in the direction of the docks. "Now Donnie, he plays his hand a little closer to the chest." He looked back at Minerva, winked, and tilted his head toward Ana, who stood several feet away, still drinking in the view. "That's why I'm so pleased about this new relationship. He seems so open and peaceful with Ana." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Plus, she seems to understand how close the brothers are, and encourages that relationship. Like just now, when she suggested Don go to Charlie."

Minnie was pushing items around the cooler, trying to find enough room for a plastic bag full of cheese cubes. Why was it that even though they'd eaten over half of the food they brought, they couldn't fit the leftovers back into the cooler? "Ayup," she murmured distractedly. "Your sons seem mighty close." She finally gave up and just dropped the cheese on top, and grabbed the lid to the cooler, intending to jam it on by force. She paused long enough to grin at Alan. "Got yourself a couple of fine boys, there. You and the missus did a right good job."

Alan beamed, placing his hands over Minnie's as they combined forces to manhandle the cooler. Pete, just a few feet away by now, saw the smiles, the touch…and red. He had been moonin' around after this ol' biddy since the winter after her husband died, and dad-gum-it, enough was enough.

The grace with which he launched his body into space was truly a remarkable thing. The growl that tore from his throat would have frightened the dead, and the accuracy with which he wrapped his hands around that pretty boy's throat, was a thing of beauty.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don limped back into the fray right about the time Pete's right hook connected with Ana's jaw, causing her to yelp and stumble backwards into Minnie, who was holding a hand over one eye and didn't see her coming. Soon both women were flat on their backs in the grass. As if seeing his father attacked hadn't been enough motivation for Don, the insult to his woman thoroughly pushed him over the edge. He heard a mountain lion roar (even though later Minerva assured him there were no mountain lions in the area, and that noise had been him), and before he had time to plan what he was going to do, Crazy Pete was lifted clean off his feet and tossed nearly twenty feet across the clearing.

Didn't seem to bother Don's healing arms at all, and he stalked after the man. He fully intended that the next toss would be over the cliff into the rocks Ana had found so lovely. If Alan hadn't scrambled to his feet and run to plant himself between Don and Pete, it probably would have happened that way, too. As it was, Don had to clench his fists at his side to keep from cold-cocking his own father. "Let me at that sorry son of a bitch," he seethed, and Alan tried to talk him down.

"Don, get a hold of yourself. He's a crazy old man, and you've got murder in your eye! We're fine, son, he didn't hurt anybody!"

Ana had quickly regained her feet and was suddenly clutching at his elbow, breathing hard. "Sweetheart, just let him go. Let him go. Your father is…"

Minerva's sharp voice interrupted. She had older bones and was a little slower to rise, but when she was up again, right away she saw that something was wrong with the picture. "Where's Charlie?"

Crazy Pete was half-crawling, half-running for the hills, and Don had been about to drag Ana and his father with him while he chased the old coot down, but the question and the fearful tone with which it was asked stopped him short, as nothing else could. He turned to look toward the dock, confused. "He's right behind me," he started, but stopped when the familiar sight of a curly-haired tourist on crutches wasn't where it should have been.

He looked questioningly at Minnie before turning to Ana. "Are you all right?" Without waiting for an answer, he took a step toward Alan. "Dad?" Crazy Pete was already out of sight.

Alan rubbed at his throat and nodded, glancing worriedly toward the dock. "I'm fine, son, he just surprised me. Maybe Charlie needs help getting back up here?"

Don ran an exasperated hand through his hair and turned instead toward the women. Ana's jaw was already showing signs of bruising, and he winced as he reached for her. "My God, what got into that old man? Baby, I'm so sorry!" He glanced up at Minnie, who had joined the group but still stared toward the docks. Taking in what he knew would be a shiner in the morning, Don's voice grew authoritative. "There's ice in the cooler. You both need…"

"Shut-up," Ana barked, and Don's mouth gaped.

His eyes grew wide. "What?"

She pawed at his shoulders, turning him toward the docks, then slipped a hand into his and starting dragging him away. "I mean, I love you," she answered. "Let's go find Charlie."

Alan was nodding and prodding him in the back as he passed. "Go, go. I've got Minnie." The eldest Eppes caught a glimpse of the woman, hands on her hips, wild gray halo of hair flying around her head as if trying to escape, scowl on her face; and grimaced.

She scared him more than Crazy Pete.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

When Charlie tumbled backwards off the dock, his terrified yelp was over-screeched by a particularly hungry gull, and no-one heard him. Not his brother, just a few feet ahead of him, nor any of the other tourists farther down the dock. His crutches clattered on the wood that his hands automatically scrambled for during the 20-foot drop to the water. While he had started the dive in the shape of a "V," the weight of the heavy brace on his right leg straightened him out, and he parted the water in a completely vertical, almost soundless and splashless entry. Judges would have no doubt awarded a string of perfect 6's.

Unfortunately, he had also opened his mouth to cry out again, and instead ended up ingesting a pint of the Atlantic. He tried to sputter, but he was already underwater, his hair limp around his face like seaweed, so the bubbles he expelled were rapidly replaced by even more water. His hands thrashed frantically and he tried to kick with his legs toward the surface. In his panic he did not feel the pain as he tried to move his right leg. He couldn't think clearly enough to remember why that leg was so much heavier, and he became convinced that some creature of the sea was pulling at him, dragging him home for dinner. He turned in ineffective circles in one place, sinking ever lower, until one hand connected with something slimy, and solid,

Even in his terror he understood he had found his potential savior, and he fought to find purchase with his other hand and wrap his good leg around the dock piling. His hand slipped off the slime, once, a swell of the ocean knocking him back, and he screamed, taking in another quart of seawater before he found the piling again.

Charlie was losing all sense of direction, self-preservation and consciousness by the time he was wrapped around it, and he was having difficulty remembering exactly why he had placed himself in this position.

Perhaps he should just let go.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Don gritted his teeth against the pain and managed to jog down the ramp leading to the dock, this time. If Ana hadn't been balancing him on his bad side, he no doubt would have tumbled head-over-heels. As it was, he practically ran head-on into a group of teenage tourists leaving the dock.

"Hey!" protested the boy he'd nearly taken out. "Watch where you're going, dude!"

"Yeah," piped up a younger variation of the teen. "No fire here."

Don had skidded to a halt and interrupted, breathless. "Brother," he panted. "Crutches?"

One of the females stepped forward from the back of the group and addressed the boy who had spoken first, apparently the group's leader. "Scotty, I told you something was weird about a pair of crutches just lying on the dock like that!"

Don gasped and tried to peer around the group to where he and Charlie had been sitting and Ana squeezed his hand. "Where?" asked the doctor. "Where did you see that?"

Scotty shrugged. "Right down there near the end, when we was leav…" He never got a chance to finish. Don was dragging Ana through the middle of the group of teenagers, heading for the last place he had seen Charlie.

As he broke through the other side of the group and looked toward the end of the dock, the glint of the sun off the abandoned aluminum crutches almost blinded him. "Oh, my God," he breathed, breaking into a run again, visions of the inevitable playing across his imagination like a macabre slide show. He spoke to Ana with certainty, his eyes never leaving the crutches splayed on the wooden dock. "Charlie's in the water!"

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Instinct had propelled Charlie to inch his way up the slippery piling, often losing whatever ground he'd gained when a swell of the ocean combined with the slime to send him in the wrong direction. By the time the top of his head finally cleared the water, he was beyond exhausted. One more heave and he knew he was up as far as he was going. He held on for dear life while he coughed and spewed out as much water as he could.

His left leg was wrapped around the submerged piling, and his braced right leg slammed into it with every breath of the ocean. Both arms surrounded the cylindrical concrete, which he had been relieved to discover grew a little less slimy once it no longer lived surrounded by water, and his cheek rested on his arms.

His body was racked by shivers made worse every time he tried to take a deep breath that collapsed into another coughing fit. Between hacking up seawater, the roar of the ocean and the din of the seabirds that nested under the dock and resented his intrusion, Charlie didn't hear his brother calling his name. He had just about regained enough of his senses to decide that something had to be done – his arms were growing tired – when he was almost frightened off the piling by something that hurtled off the dock above and slammed into the ocean a few feet from him. Good Lord, what now?

Charlie moved his head as much as he could while still gripping the piling and stared with wide and frightened eyes at the churning water just a few feet away, where something large was struggling to reach the surface. His teeth chattered and he had the sudden urge to cross himself, even though he wasn't Catholic. What was going to pop out of there, and was it going to kill him, after all this?

When the body broke free of the water and began preparations for another dive to the murky depths below, Charlie was so shocked he couldn't speak for a moment. It was lucky that when he did, the ocean was resting between swells, and most of the birds had fled in an affronted huff. Not to mention that under the dock as he was, an echo was added to his voice that lent volume; otherwise, there was no way anyone could have heard him. "D-d-d-don," he chattered, his weary arms slipping a notch. "Wh-wh-what the hell are y-y-you doing?"

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 36


	37. Breaking for the Surface

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter ****37:**** Breaking for the Surface**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

In the end, much to Don's consternation, it was Crazy Pete who maneuvered a skiff close enough to the pilings to pluck both brothers out of the ocean.

Ana had galvanized every tourist in near- proximity to the dock into some form of action. One of them had seen Pete sneaking onto his boat and begged him for help, while another had notified the Coast Guard. The Guard's cutter was entirely too large to navigate so close to shore, however, and was also on the other side of the island dealing with a tourist who had parasailed his way into near-oblivion. So it had been Crazy Pete who steadied his craft while two strangers pried Charlie off the piling and hauled both Eppes into the tiny boat.

By the time Pete got back to the moorings, Alan and Minnie had joined Ana and were waiting for them anxiously. Ana had taken one look and sent Minnie in search of a larger boat that could take them all to Bar Harbor. The clinic there could do a chest x-ray to make sure Charlie hadn't aspirated enough water for, God forbid, a "secondary drowning" and could administer the right IV antibiotics to stave off a nasty pneumonia. Charlie tried weakly to protest that he was all right, but lost the battle when he sneezed in the middle of it all. Don already knew Ana well enough to tell by the look on her face that there was no use in arguing, so he huddled in a blanket and wisely kept his mouth shut.

Alan was ready to offer his picnic lunch as a sacrifice to the sea and climb on the boat with them, and Don fell in love just a little bit more when Ana managed to talk him out of it. "We'll just be a few hours," she promised. She had already gently raised Charlie's loose and sodden sweats enough to remove his brace and get a good look at his knee, and now she thrust the brace at Alan. "Take this back to Minnie's cabin and get it as dry as you can. It's already wet, so go ahead and fill up the tub with hot water and bleach and give it a good dunking. Then use towels to dry it off, and finish with a hair dryer – all the nooks and crannies, especially the Velcro®."

Alan frowned, looking over her shoulder at his shivering sons. "What on earth for? I don't want to stay on this island performing useless busy work! The clinic will give him a new brace!"

Ana shook her head and backed off a few steps in preparation for jumping onto the boat. "It's custom made," she insisted. "We'll check, but it's highly unlikely they'll just happen to have the right thing in the correct size. Please, Alan, I'll need to remove the staples and reapply the brace as soon as we get back."

So Alan had acquiesced, gripping the brace tightly as he boarded the boat long enough to give each of his sons a brief hug and kiss on the cheek. He disembarked as someone passed Charlie's crutches to Ana, and waved forlornly from the dock as the boat left without him. Some of Minerva's other renters walked back up the ramp with him, and on the grassy bluff they helped him load the forgotten picnic onto the golf cart. Alan insisted they come back and enjoy the sunset and the fire themselves that night, and return the chairs and blankets the next day, and then he rattled off in the golf cart for Minerva's cabin.

For the next three hours he worked diligently. He found some bleach in Minerva's cleaning supplies, ran a few inches of water in the tub and added a generous helping. Leaving the brace to soak for a while, he returned to the kitchen and methodically emptied the cooler; putting the leftovers into the refrigerator and carrying the cooler back out to the porch. Stopping at the hall closet for several white, fluffy, towels, Alan moved back into the bathroom and lowered himself to the floor beside the bathtub.

He swished the brace around in the water for awhile; then let the tub drain. Still concerned about nameless bacteria strong enough to live in the ferocious sea, he lifted the jug of bleach and poured some full-strength onto the length of the metal rods and screws, before rinsing once more. Then he laid out several of the towels on the floor and lifted the brace onto them before he used the lip of the tub to push himself up again.

He had opened several cupboards, looking for a hair dryer, when it occurred to him that a woman with hair like Minerva's probably didn't bother with a contraption like that. He smiled, shaking his head, as he headed for the back guest room, where Charlie had been staying. If he knew his son, there was a not only a hair dryer but enough product to supply a beauty salon in there somewhere. He may have only taken one change of clothing to Kansas City, but Alan would bet the farm that there was an entire carry-on bag full of hair essentials.

Five minutes later, the farm safe, Alan gripped Charlie's small but potent travel-size hair dryer and made his way back to the bathroom. He plugged the unit in and used another towel to get the brace as dry as he could before he lifted it up onto the counter. Before he turned the hair dryer on, he checked the cell phone on his belt to make sure it was set to vibrate as well as ring; he didn't want to miss any calls. Then, for the next hour, he dried Charlie's brace. The Velcro® was still a little damp when he stopped, his arms tired from the constant motion and his back aching from standing for so long. He gently laid the brace on the counter, checked his cell phone for missed calls and text messages, and then gathered the towels off the floor.

When he trudged out to the enclosed porch, where the washer and dryer were, he could see that he did not have a full load. So he went back into the guest room Charlie had been using and found a few items there that could use a wash. Alan had been sleeping in the great room, on a couch that pulled out into a surprisingly comfortable bed, so he stopped there and gathered a few more items. By the time he started the laundry and checked his cell phone again, everyone had been gone for two hours.

He sighed, and wandered to the back door that led from the porch almost directly into the woods. It was ordinarily a very peaceful view; he had taken to having his coffee there every morning. This afternoon it didn't do a thing for him, though, and he soon walked to the other end of the house. He opened the front door and blinked down the road that led to the docks. The porch on this end of the house was covered, a rocking chair sitting at one end. Alan checked his cell phone again and then planted himself in the chair, which he turned to more fully face the road before he sat down. He rocked slowly, fingers tapping nervously on the chair's wooden arm. He made it almost seven minutes before he decided to work on that Velcro® some more and headed back into the cabin.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

After Don and Charlie had both taken the worst of the chill off with warm blankets, they changed into scrubs the clinic provided them. The pants were loose enough for Charlie, without his cumbersome brace, but he still wasn't allowed – or tempted – to bend his knee, so Don helped him dress. Ana was impressed with the small clinic, which did indeed have x-ray capabilities, a small lab, a finely trained staff, and none of the big-city wait for service, as the ragtag group had arrived during a late-afternoon lull. She introduced herself as a doctor, and her opinion was welcomed and respected by the physician at the clinic.

Ana asked that Don's lungs be x-rayed as well as Charlie's, and Charlie's knee. It was still very bruised from the recent surgery, and there were fresh bruises and scratches from his experience in the ocean, so she wanted to make sure all the pins and wires looked good. If they did, she would remove the staples herself back at the cabin. She had intended to do it the next day anyway; she would just complete the task a few hours early, and drench the incision site in peroxide to stave off infection. She was sure Charlie would be more comfortable there, with his father, brother and Minerva; her goal was to get him back as soon as medically possible. Don felt a chest x-ray for him was completely unnecessary, but he was so grateful for Ana's clear head that he didn't argue. Maybe this quick medical intervention, at her insistence, would save Charlie from suffering any horrible consequences from his fall.

Charlie was given a round of IV antibiotics while the doctors waited to see his blood work and read all of the x-rays. Ana spoke to the staff physician, who nodded his head and pulled a prescription pad from his pocket. He dashed off an order for some oral antibiotics and Ana took the slip of paper to Minerva in the waiting room. She had most of the supplies she needed back at the resort, but Charlie was to follow up his IV with a solid week on oral medication, and if Minerva filled it at the pharmacy across the street now, they'd be on their way back to the island that much sooner. Ana started to ask if Minerva had enough antibiotic ointment and bandages on hand, but the old woman looked at her as if she was insulted, so she just smiled and went back to the exam area.

Don's x-rays were completely clear. Charlie's chest x-ray revealed a tiny amount of fluid in the lungs, and a large dose of diuretic was added to his IV to help him drain the excess fluid. The clinic's doctor promised Ana a handful of 20 mg diuretic pills that she could administer over the next few days if she felt it was necessary, and even offered to loan her a stethoscope so that she could listen to Charlie's lungs. The films of his knee showed that everything was still where it was supposed to be, and she breathed a sigh of relief, for that had been her greatest fear.

The boat's owner, a neighbor of Minerva's during most of the year, had insisted on waiting for them and taking them back to the island. It promised to be a much calmer trip this time, and after Ana helped Don settle Charlie and tuck a blanket around him, she sat down opposite them and smiled into Don's dark eyes. Minerva was standing next to the skipper at the helm. The tourist who had come along with them on the way to the clinic, in case they needed an extra hand, had decided to stay in Bar Harbor for a while and catch the last ferry back to the island. Charlie's head was already lolling toward his chest, and he was asleep within the first five minutes.

Ana crooked a finger at Don and he glanced at Charlie, grinned, and switched places quickly. He sat down next to Ana and kissed her deeply, not caring who might see. "Thank you," he breathed into her hair when they finally came up for air. "You're incredible."

She laughed in the back of her throat and pulled away far enough to touch his lips with her fingers. "I am only Ana," she admonished, and he grabbed her fingers with his own and kissed them tenderly before moving both of their hands to his lap.

"Exactly," he agreed. "And Ana is amazing. Exceptional. Outstanding. Phenom…."

She laughed again, interrupting. "Stop. _Ai_, someday I will regret telling you to stop, eh?" Don smiled and Ana glanced at Charlie, whose head had tilted to rest on the seat back, and was obviously asleep. She frowned a little and looked back at Don. "What happened?"

He mirrored her frown. "We heard the yelling when Pete went after Dad, and I guess when he tried to turn around he tripped, or something."

She shook her head. "No, not that. I mean, why was he on the dock in the first place? Were you able to determine why he left the picnic?"

A cloud passed over Don's face. "Oh. He's been feeling a little left out, and confused about feelings he has for Lydia Campbell. He feels like he's insulting Amita."

Ana's eyes darkened in sorrow and she nodded slowly, but didn't speak for a while. "You have told me he loved her very much," she said finally. "I am sure it will be difficult for him to allow himself to love another." Don just nodded sadly, still looking at Charlie. Ana cleared her throat and continued. "Don, I need to stay for a few days to check Charlie's progress with his lungs and his knee, but I think I should return to L.A. soon."

He looked at her, startled. "What? Why? Aren't you enjoying yourself?" He suddenly looked a little rueful. "Well, except for this part."

She smiled and leaned over to kiss him into silence. "I have had a wonderful time," she assured him. "Yet we never intended for me to be part of the entire vacation. You wanted some time with your father, and brother."

"We might not even stay that much longer," Don argued. "We haven't really set a date yet – I'm not even sure when Minerva needs the cabin back for her next renters."

"I am sure she will find room for you all in her cabin," Ana answered matter-of-factly. She grinned. "Something tells me your family is welcome in her home for as long as you will stay. Charlie does not return to teaching for quite some time, and now you are on medical leave yourself. I think you should stay at least another week."

Don was torn. It was true that he and his father and his brother hadn't had their "family" vacation, and he knew that they all needed that; not just Charlie. On the other hand, he didn't want Ana to feel she had to leave. "I'll talk to them," he finally said despondently.

Ana smiled and giggled when a loud snort suddenly ripped from the vicinity of Charlie. Don shook his head and smiled. Ana leaned to kiss his cheek again. "Besides," she said lightly, "I am not a woman of leisure. I have yet to make a decision about where to hang my hat."

Don looked at her nervously. "You mean professionally, right?" he asked. "I've been meaning to ask…that is…I hoped…" He closed his eyes and took the plunge. "Pleasesayyou'llcomeandlivewithme."

Shock almost knocked Ana off the padded seat. Was she, Ana de la Cruz, a good enough woman for Don Eppes? With her past, and the filth Macedo had left on her…she shuddered, and finally noticed the distraught look on Don's face. "It is not you," she whispered into his ear. "I love you, and I cannot remember when I have ever wanted anything more." She drew back, and her heart fell at the hopeful look that had crept back into his face. "I must think," she said, squeezing the hand she still held. "I am sorry, Don, but I must think. I will have an answer for you when you come back to L.A., all right?"

Don swallowed. He knew that she was only doing the reasonable thing, thinking before she moved in with him. She was not threatening to end their relationship. Still, he felt oddly bereft. "Just tell me again," he heard himself begging, hardly believing it himself. "You do love me?"

Ana leaned into him and felt his solid warmth, and closed her eyes in pleasure. "With all my heart, Agent Eppes. With all my heart."

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 37


	38. Defining Finite

**Title: ****Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series**

**Chapter 38: Defining Finite**

**Authors: Rabid Raccoons**

**Disclaimer:** **See Chapter 1**

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Minerva had called Alan while the youngsters were settling Charlie for the return trip to the island on one of those little things they called a cell. She asked her neighbor to wait while she walked up the dock and used the pay phone, and darned if he hadn't shoved that little thing in her hand. Of course, then he had to take it back and push all the right buttons for her, but eventually she was talking to Alan, promising to bring his boys back in one piece and telling him where she kept the keys to the Volkswagen van so he could pick them all up at the dock.

"Thank God," he had crowed. "I was about to mop the kitchen floor."

Minerva scowled into the phone. "What's wrong with my floor?"

"Nothing," he laughed. "Your cabin is absolutely spotless. Maybe a little more spotless than you left it, but a man has to keep his hands busy. I hope you don't mind."

Minnie shook her head and smiled in spite of herself. All the way back to the island, standing next to her neighbor at the helm, she wondered if what she'd been missing all these years was a good, solid little wife like Alan Eppes.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Charlie had warmed up at the clinic, but the trip back to the island had thoroughly chilled him again, and his shivering was apparent as Ana removed the staples. When she had started, both Alan and Don had insisted on staying. Alan had turned a trifle green as she extracted the first staple, and backed away a step. She had looked up around staple #6 and found that Don's color was a little off as well. "Gentlemen," she suggested, giving Charlie a little breather before she dug for #7, "Charlie's still very cold and he probably would like to wash his hair; why don't you get a bath set up for him? I'd like him to soak this knee for a while before we reapply the brace, as well." She shot a brilliant smile at Alan. "You did a fine job, by the way. It's as good as new."

Alan and Don practically tripped over each other in their haste to grab up the items Charlie might need and rush down the hall to the bathroom, and in spite of his discomfort a low chuckle sounded in Charlie's throat as they left. "Thanks," he rasped, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like he might be coming down with a cold. "They're not usually so…delicate, but then I can't really see what you're doing down there."

Ana smiled and moved on to #8. "It's not that terrible, I assure you. I think they're just both a little rattled from the entire experience."

"Mmmm," Charlie agreed, wincing as #9 was yanked from its home. "I know you're right about washing the seaweed out of my hair, but I kind-of wish I could just sleep for a few days."

Ana automatically slipped into her professional, authoritative mode. "Mr. Eppes, it's imperative that you follow my instructions to a T. For one thing, we are doing our best to avoid any nasty infections related to your little swim this afternoon." She winked then, glancing up toward his face. "For another, you have the rather severe misfortune of having your doctor several feet away at all times. If you disobey me, the consequences will be severe."

Charlie laughed his way through #s 11 and 12, although there was a slight hitch at the end. "What do you think you can do to me?" he challenged as he looked back.

Ana had her head down, working on #13, which was proving a little stubborn. "I could always inform the law," she answered. Finally snagging the reluctant staple she looked back up, eyes twinkling. "Or perhaps the tag team known as Minnie and Al."

Charlie rolled his eyes and started to smile, but frowned as he got a good look at her. "Is there a bruise on your chin? What happened? Did you jump into the ocean too?"

Ana looked a little startled. She had forgotten about the altercation on the bluff entirely. She was surprised there was even a bruise; her jaw did not hurt all that much. Now that Charlie mentioned it, though, she remembered that Minerva's left eye was swelling shut. She'd have to check that out while Charlie was in the bath. "Oh, that," she shrugged. "Seems that Pete fellow might have been just a tad jealous of your father and Minerva."

Charlie's own eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What?" he asked, voice an octave higher than usual. That could have been because of staple #14, but Ana rather doubted it. _"My father and Minerva?"_

Ana smiled into his knee. "Calm yourself, Charlie; I don't think there's any real risk of impending nuptials. I think they call him 'Crazy Pete' for a reason."

"Oh." Charlie relaxed a little and shivered again, and Ana tried to hurry. Luckily numbers 15 and 16 seemed anxious to jump ship. "Is everybody all right?"

"I think so," Ana answered. "I'll check on them both while you're in the bath." She hesitated after #17, looking up. Charlie was yawning at the ceiling, and she wondered if she should wait for this, but finally decided there was no time like the present.

"Charlie," she began, turning back to the last staple, "I told Don that I'll stay for a few more days to keep an eye on your lungs and your knee, but I'll probably be heading back to L.A. by the end of the week."

He moved a little in agitation and nearly cost himself a nasty little gash in the process. "Please, you don't have to do that. I, I don't know what Don told you, but I'm glad you're here, really. He's having such a good time!" It was quite a speech for the exhausted man, increasing in desperation, and Ana shushed him as she began to wipe down his knee with a cotton ball soaked in peroxide. This was the most uncomfortable part, and at least she had managed to keep his mind off it, she reasoned.

"No, Charlie, Don didn't say or do anything to make me leave. None of you did. I also have been having a wonderful time, and I love you all very much."

Charlie swallowed and as his hands clenched into fists at his sides, Ana suspected he wasn't quite distracted enough. "Then why do you have to go?" His voice was plaintive, and Ana was both touched and saddened.

"Charlie, none of us ever intended for me to be part of your entire vacation. I'm so pleased that you invited me along at all, but I do still have some things up in the air back in L.A. I left a little suddenly, and missed an appointment I had for an interview with a private practice. And I'd like to speak with the Chief of Staff at UCLA Medical Center again."

Instead of reassuring Charlie, that knowledge seemed to fill him with guilt. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's all my fault."

Ana wanted to hug him and slap him at the same time, but she finally straightened her spine and settled for a gentle tap to the side of his leg. "Nonsense," she said matter-of-factly. "I don't have time to entertain such nonsense. I was exactly where I wanted to be the last several weeks, and I make my own decisions. It is just time for me to go back, now." She stood; then leaned over to lift Charlie's leg from the bed. "Come, now, your bath awaits you. When you are finished, I will apply some antibiotic ointment and a light dressing, and you can put the brace back on."

Charlie sighed, and did as he was told. There was always a chance he would drown in the bathtub.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

Despite Charlie's proclivity for complicated recoveries, having his own personal physician on-site seemed to turn the tide. Antibiotics, the occasional diuretic and Ana's dedicated attention kept him pneumonia-free, and the incision on his knee continued to heal well. His slight cold never even fully developed.

On the fourth day after the accident, Ana did leave the island. Other guests of Minerva's were leaving that day as well, driving a rental back to Portland, and she was invited to ride with them. From Portland, she could catch a commercial flight back to L.A. The Eppes had spoken with Minerva and decided to stay another week. Although she needed the cabin Don and Ana had been using for new guests, she had a roll-away that could be set up in the guest room with Charlie, so Don moved into the main cabin.

On the day that Ana left, the Eppes all accompanied her to Bar Harbor. Minerva had to stay on the island and run the resort, but Alan had planned a day trip out of Bar Harbor for himself and his sons, knowing Don would be sad and lonely. He hoped to distract him with a jaunt up to Cadillac Mountain. Charlie still tired easily, and was very quiet, but even so it had been a nice day for father and sons. Alan was glad that Don did not seem as despondent as he had feared. Over the next several days his eldest seemed to embrace their time together as a family. He was relaxed, and tan, and healthy, and Alan's heart swelled with pride.

The day after their trip to the mountain, they managed a less-eventful picnic on the bluff again, and on the third day they actually went to the most popular, tourist-infested beach in the area; mostly so they could tell everyone they had. Still, it was surprisingly peaceful, sitting on rented chaise lounges under garish beach umbrellas, sipping lemonade sent by Minerva and listening to children screaming as they waded in the ocean's surf. That evening, back at Minerva's cabin, they had enjoyed a marvelous mussel stew she had simmered all day.

As always, Charlie was the first to leave the group, slowly crutching out to the front porch to sit in the rocking chair. Minnie had miraculously produced two more, and after chatting with his father for a few minutes, Don had gone back to the guest bedroom and then marched back out, cell phone in his hand, and joined his brother on the porch. "Hey," he greeted, ignoring the other chairs and leaning instead on the banister near Charlie. He was purposely cutting off his brother's view, so that Charlie would have to look at him.

It worked. Charlie looked up and shaded his eyes from the setting sun. "Hi," he answered; then noticed the cell phone in Don's hand. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, preparing to push himself up. "You want me to leave? Are you going to call Ana?"

Don frowned and shook his head. "No, Charlie. Even if I were, if I brought the phone out here to do it that wouldn't mean you had to leave. You were here first."

Charlie relaxed back in the chair, but sighed and looked away. "Are you mad at me?" he asked in a small voice, and Don looked at him in genuine surprise.

"What? No, no, of course not. What? Have I seemed angry to you?"

Charlie shrugged, still refusing to look at Don. "Not really, but I thought that might be a show for Dad." He risked a glance at his brother. "You've got to be at least a little miffed that I chased Ana away."

Don crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. "Geez, Charlie. You've got a real guilt complex going there. If you need Bradford's number, I'll get it for you when we get back home."

Charlie answered in a tone somewhere between petulant and defensive. "I don't need a shrink, thank you very much."

_I beg to differ_, thought Don, _I think one certain shrink is exactly who you need..._

He managed to hold his tongue and relaxed against the rail for a while, trying to think of the proper approach. He toyed with the cell phone in his hand and took a shot. "Charlie," he began, "if something ever happened to me, I would hope that someone would step up for you. Larry, Colby, David; maybe someone else."

Charlie was terrified into near speechlessness as he leaned precariously forward. "What? What?" Don could have sworn his brother's eyes actually teared up as he started trying to push out of the chair. "Something's wrong, oh my God…"

Don squatted next to the chair, gently pushing Charlie back down as he did. "No, Charlie, take it easy. Everything's good. Really." He waited until Charlie's breathing regulated before he continued. "I'm just trying to make a point. I know those guys would never take my place with you; that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that love is not…a finite product proportioned out to us in gallon jugs at birth. When we spend some of it, we're not left with less. It's weird, Buddy, but it seems to be the opposite. I'm just saying I would hate to think of you denying yourself close relationships because you were afraid that it would somehow be a bad reflection of our brotherhood." Charlie sank back in the chair, a guarded look settling on his face, but Don not only persisted, he rested one hand on top of his brother's arm. "The better you became at loving someone else, I figure that would indicate you learned from the time you spent toughing it out with me," he said softly. "I think I knew Amita well enough to assume that she would feel the same way." Charlie closed his eyes, but Don wouldn't let his brother shut him out. "She loved you. She would never want you to be alone the rest of your life." After a pause he stood again, with one last shot. "Be honest, Buddy. Is that what you would have wanted for her, if the situation was reversed?"

Charlie's eyes popped open at that and his mouth gaped a little. Don smiled and leaned over to lay the cell phone in his lap. "I know you lost your phone in Kansas City," he said, "so you can borrow mine. While you were in the hospital, Lydia asked me to keep her updated. Her number is still on my contact list." He smiled again, squeezed Charlie's shoulder briefly, and then walked back into the cabin.

Charlie sat on the porch for a long time, watching tourists hike back from the beach, listening to Don referee a game of Scrabble between Minerva and Alan, smelling the heady mixed scent of pine and saltwater. His brother had been gone nearly 45 minutes before he lifted the phone and began scrolling through the contacts.

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

End, Chapter 38

**0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0**

**A/N: The Rabid Raccoons are all a-twitter, and facing a trilogy. Will Alan stay in Maine and be Minerva's hausfrau? Will Ana move in with Don? Can Charlie find it in his heart to love Lydia? Did Penfield's escape and subsequent actions nullify his "deal" and will he finally pay the ultimate price for his crimes? Will Crazy Pete be charged with assault or disappear onto a lobster boat? These are but a few of the questions that force the Raccoons into your garbage bins at night.**


End file.
